


WHITE WATERS

by taobei (kooboo)



Category: EXO (Band), Super Junior-M
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Chinese Civil War, Historical, M/M, Romance, Sino-Japanese War, Smut, World War II, just a heads up, you will definitely hate yixing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 08:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12128106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kooboo/pseuds/taobei
Summary: Huang Zitao, a young pilot of the Chinese National Revolutionary Army, upon being captured, finds himself taken by a handsome Lieutenant General of the Red Army.





	WHITE WATERS

**Author's Note:**

> ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The author writes and produces all fictional content meaning no harm to any idols featured in their stories and taking triggering topics into consideration in order to produce content which is easily approachable and readable. The author takes full responsibilty for spelling errors and typos in their stories, for English is only their second fluent language. No money is made out of this. No part of any publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form. This piece of fiction is based on actual historical events, the incidents of the Second Sino-Japanese War, Chinese Civil War and the Second World War. For the author certainly was not present during these wars, these portrayals are purely fictional and sprout from vivid imagination. The author means no harm to anyone when describing political and ideological views.
> 
> also available on AFF:http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1176349/

 

**TIMELINE**

 

 **Chinese Civil War** ➢ August 1927 – 22 December 1936 (9 years, 4 months and 3 weeks)  & 31 March 1946 – 1 May 1950 (4 years and 1 month)

 **The Second Sino-Japanese War** ➢ July 7, 1937 – September 9, 1945, followed The First Sino-Japanese War (1 August 1894 – 17 April 1895)

     ➢ August–November, 1937: **Battle of Shanghai** ; full scale fighting erupts throughout northern China, and Japan overcomes initial failures with landings and reinforcements in Shanghai. Before the battle, the Tokyo government announced that Japan would complete the conquest of Shanghai in three days, and all of China within three months. KMT troops held Shanghai for over three months.

        ➢ December, 1937: Nanking captured and subjected to months of rampage. **The Rape of Nanking** resulted in the deaths of up to 300,000 Chinese civilians. This is in line with the _Three Alls Policy_ : kill all, burn all, loot all. ( _Nanking > Nanjing_)

        ➢ April, 1938: Chinese Nationalists gain a major victory over Japanese forces in Shantung province.

        ➢ June, 1938: The Japanese advance along the Yellow River ( _Huang He_ ) is halted by the breaking of dams by the Chinese. The surprise flood kills many Japanese but also as many as 1,000,000 civilians.

 

 

 

**NOTE**

 

 _During the Second Sino-Japanese War and the Chinese Civil War, both part of the Second World War, KMT and its armed forces NRA suffered from defection, as many chose to join the Communist Red Army, renamed People’s Liberation Army after Japan’s surrender in 1945. The Red Army often merged men from the NRA into their troops. From 1937 to 1945 the Communist were integrated into the Nationalist Revolutionary Army against the Japanese terror, yet the cooperation was more in name only and at best minimal, for the two sides continued to clash in unoccupied territories, unable to see past their ideological differences. While the NRA had airforces, the Communist did not. Unlike the KMT troops, the CPC shunned conventional warfare and engaged in guerrilla warfare instead — in Mao Zedong’s words: "The enemy advances, we retreat; the enemy camps, we harass; the enemy tires, we attack; the enemy retreats, we pursue.”_  

 

 

 

 

**WHITE WATERS**

 

 

 

 

_1938_

_FEBRUARY_

 

 

Remotely the rumbling, terrifying roar of gunpowder crashes in the air, all over, above and under, submerges the world in a dusty, fracture-filled cloud of uncertainty, horror and shatter. The walls of the ancient old temples crack — the stone paved floors are trembling beneath the havoc, the oil, the paint is peeling, rustling under the weight of the tumbling structures, the spines and the bones of the Buddhist, the Taoist, the history of their nation collapsing onto the dry soil of mines and corpses. The ceiling shifts, grit rains down, turns thick in the howling wind and gets stuck in Zitao’s throat, grinds in his lungs. He coughs, holding the bridge of his bleeding nose, hot, iron infused liquid sprouting, dripping from his mouth and down the bruises of his dislocated jaw. In his eyes a flash of red, a shockwave of hatred, anger and overflowing tides of unbending pride. Coal black irises smeared in crimson, piercing pupils shrinking with every breath he takes, a rib broken, nudging his lung. The floor is of marble, its shine long gone beneath the webs of severed stone, pollen and sand. The buildings, they perish into powder. The ground shakes with each crush, the explosions of the bombs, the spiralling planes, and Zitao’s breath is thin, difficult and straining. His skin scraped over the pebbles, the sharp edges of the severed shards of marble, stone, the ceiling of the building he’s held in, the tears of his once reseda green uniform now a dirty aftermath of his abuse. The screams, he hears them loud through the terror, hears them from beyond the walls, past the vast highs and lows of the land, over the clashing _Zhujiang_ waves. He thinks he hears the children cry, the panic in the steps of women, how in the midst of it all the animals die, innocent, outsiders amid the war of men, the war that is ripping China in halves before _Tiananmen_. 

 

 

A strike of hard wood splashes across the plane of his back, sending him to the ground, splitting the line of his spine, shredding his flesh and though it hurts, stings and burns, Zitao cannot find it within himself to cry in front of these men, to spill out in begs and in pleas. The paintings on the walls, they tremble in their mahogany frames, clattering. He no longer knows how many hours have passed, how many blows he’s taken from that cane, if the men’s boots are of lead or leather. The severity of his injuries is far beyond his comprehension, and while he feels that this could end, _should_ end and he’s on the verge of screaming for someone to pull the trigger, he takes the hit, three hits, twenty. After each one he’s asked the same question with a stern, callous tone, and after each one he chooses to remain silent, wait for the cane to break into his flesh and push his rib bones through his lungs, puncture in and burst the remaining life out of him. If he could, he would grin at the men, spit _‘fuck you’_ and laugh, but he can barely move his mouth to cry out when a stone hard first with knifelike knuckles rams into his skull, in the corner of his eye. The back of his head smashes into the marble, and he wants to let himself fall limp, go numb under the assault, build a web of those kicks, blows, of that cane, knit them into his flesh, a part of his wincing, twisting body instead of stubbornly pushing himself up, lifting his bloodshot eyes up to meet theirs, an action that requires no words to get the message across — “ _You can’t break me.”_  

 

 

He thinks he should know better than this, wise up and co-operate with the Red Army if only to spare his own life, but his morals hold him up, stitch his mouth shut. Loyalty, if anything, means something — loyalty towards one’s beliefs, faith, family, leaders. Zitao won’t let them down. In the North, from the East, the rage of Japan’s war machine billows in, on divided land, separated people, over and in between two opposing ideals, a torn country ready for the taking, for them to build up a back spine for the conquest of the most horrifying of power, for them to enslave the nation under their brutal dictatorship. And yet, Zitao is in the arms of his own people instead of the foreign invaders, beaten and interrogated, seeing his lifelines splatter on the once white marble. He hears the question, over and over again, being repeated to him as though he’s no longer human but a puppet, a treasury of information, a safety hold for strategies. Zitao wants to laugh — he’ll never tell them where his leader is residing, where their forces are heading, which countries are aiding their troops, because he knows that the Red Army would exploit his knowledge, destroy their own people in their blind hunger for power when they should all turn their gazes to the blazing sun that rises in the East and boils, rams inland, an avalanche of lava on soil unmanned. 

 

 

The man sneers, beckoning a younger soldier closer, and while Zitao cannot hear the words they exchange, he knows when he’s pinned hard and ruthless to the ground, the man hovering over him, ready to aim for his already disfigured face. By now he’s given up on bracing himself for the pain, for it is an overall onslaught that throbs, scorches, — no more needs to gore through him to make itself visible. He’s the manifestation of their war, the ignorance and the lack of understanding, the embodiment of force, dignity and fire, fire that keeps burning, keeps spiking up and flaring in flames regardless of how hard he’s being extinguished. So he lies there, quiet and ready, his eyes swelling, his tailbone harshly digging into the floor, through his fluttering lashes gazing up at the soldier, the red of his uniform, the brown of his irises, looks for whatever humanity, sincerity, kindness there might be in him, — finding _none_. The veins of his neck are tense, his shoulders stiff, the line of his back straight. Jaw slack, lids bruising shut, tongue falling into his trachea, Zitao waits. He’s lifted up from the floor by the collar, its rim tightening around the tugging whorl of his throat. The end of the cane is tapping the marble, hollow thuds echoing under the bellowing massacre, into Zitao’s ears, ripped from the shells, aching. Taking a breath, he moulds into the sway of the hold. A low, disgruntled groan runs on the pillars of the room, raising a pleased smile on Zitao’s split lips, “I won’t break _for you_.” 

 

 

The soldier grinds his teeth, swinging his arm, but his fist never hammers into his bones. He’s stopped by a man, mighty tall and unmoving. Silence fills the dusty air, order restores in the mayhem, and he scrambles, tumbles, leaves Zitao lying on the floor, retreating against the wall, posture rigid and a gulp sliding down his throat. 

“Has he spoken?” the man, dressed in black army uniform, asks and glances at the man with the cane, who merely shakes his head, saying, “Not a word, Lieutenant General Wu. We’ve been interrogating him for five hours, sir. He doesn’t break. He _bends_.” Lt. General Wu quirks a brow, an impressed, sorrowful smile visiting his mouth before he turns to take a closer look at their captive. He’s a few heartbeats from shrinking through the first layers of marble, into oblivion and forgiveness, back to the earth. Yifan gives a hum, examining the broken bones, the bruises, the badges on his uniform, sees a bit of fight left in him when he shifts, only the slightest and in immense pain, to glimpse at him. Zitao sees but a shadow of dark outlines, a cut jaw, broad shoulders. Yifan lifts a hand, two fingers up as he beckons the other man to his side.

“Colonel Zhang, be sure to see to it that this man is properly taken care of. Fix him, he could be of use later on,” Yifan orders, and a flash of disappointment cracks Yixing’s composure, yet he calls the few soldiers in the room closer to pry the man from the floor, to drag him to the ward. 

“Oi! _Careful!_ ” he grunts when the soldiers negligently pull Zitao up, hauling a blurred scream from him. Yifan nods, giving him a warning look before turning on his heels, disappearing to the yard through the same door he came in from, silent and formidable. As Colonel Zhang watches the nationalist’s open torn back, the wounds and the dirt, he growls under his breath. He wants to see him shatter, crumble and bleed, see that fire in him burn out.

 

 

 

_MARCH_

 

 

The last Zitao heard, the Revolutionary Army was near Shanghai, fighting to keep the Japanese from advancing towards Nanking, the capital of the Republic proclaimed by Leader Chiang, but as of now, he’s unsure of the date, the time, the year, of when the April Purge of the Communists took place, how long it’s been since the Nanchang Uprising, when it was that his father was slaughtered before his very eyes. Years, he assumes, for he was but a boy then, during those disastrous incidents. He doesn’t know where Japan last forced entry, if the Last Emperor still governs over the stolen province of Manchuria, a mere facade, a lie presented to the people to hide the acts of Japanese rule. He’s uncertain of the shadows in the corner, if right is wrong or left, whether it is spring or autumn yet. Time, as fleeting as it is, seems to fade into the seethe of the sun, the dust and the thunder of the guns, the soar of the doves he sees once in a while. He’s part of the mass, a soldier of an anthill, invisible, yet he isn’t; he’s of value, a bank of knowledge, a chamber of secrets, everything but expandable, and he knows this based on the eyes upon his height, the turn of heads as he walks by in line through the barracks. Zitao takes no advantage of it. He wants to blend in, dissolve into the red and keep his mouth shut till the very end. It is the best he can do while he’s a hostage, and by the looks of it, he’ll be a hostage until the sky falls on all of them, but the thing is, Zitao isn’t afraid — these are people, normal people around him, labourers and peasants, farmers, fathers and sons. He sees them cry, sees the ashen pictures they keep hidden in the inner breast pocket of their uniforms, knows they’re breakable, shakeable. Each and every one of them has someone to die for; a sunny eyed daughter, a freckle skinned son, wife dearest. They are fighting, all of them, to keep them safe, but in spite of their strive, their intentions, their loved ones will fall in harm’s way, if not in the hands of the _Kuomintang_ , then the Rising Sun. Zitao won’t die for just _anyone_. As he stands in line, the midday hot on his brow, he wets his mouth and lets out a breath. A line is a line, no matter where it is formed, before whom he stands. An army is an army, regardless of what it fights for, whose commands it follows. An instrument of destruction, a herd of tamed sheep. And war, in spite of the end result, is a war nevertheless. War, Zitao finds, could be evaded with reason, but reason is often scarcely found in a land of chaos, in a world of power play where the countries here, there and across the seas claim superiority over each other, stomp and roar in arrogance. War, Zitao thinks, is carried out by fear, caused by the lack of better judgement, better mind. A tidal wave of insecurity before a determined enemy. If men only spoke, listened, _heard_ , but panicking masses only raise their voices over one another, frightened people only seek out the words of those who scream the loudest, with certainty. And war, Zitao knows, is _loud_. 

 

 

The yard is of sallow sand. In the wind it raises off the ground in dry clouds, whirls, twirls, and from the corner of his eye Zitao sees Colonel Zhang walk between the brigade lines, his stare hard and icy, his cane pressed to his back. The arch of his brows is subtle, the curve of his jaw carved and the purse of his mouth tight. For days, weeks even, Zitao still doesn’t know, he’s been a subject to his cruelty, a punching bag for him to relieve whatever anger management issues he’s dealing with. Colonel Zhang is an intimidating figure, an emotionless wall of stone, but Zitao knows he’s just as much of a wreck inside as are the men beneath his rule, for he is, in the end, made of flesh and bone like the rest of them. He doesn’t scare him, and so it doesn’t matter how hard he strikes him down, because he’ll never be able to truly harm him. This he knows, for sure, if nothing else, because of those eyes that every so often keep watch over him from the distance, and though Lieutenant General Wu has yet to speak to him, hasn’t prevented Colonel Zhang from abusing him, Zitao knows it is because of him that he’s alive. He feels no gratitude towards the man, but in a way and to an extent, a respect of sort. He’s a tower, a rock, a force before no one rebels, no one flinches, one before whom Colonel Zhang relents. Lt. General Wu keeps to his quarters on most days, but Zitao sees him from time to time, walking through the barracks, arms behind his back. He’s a reserved man of little to no words, but Zitao has a feeling that deep down, he’s a reasonable man, a compassionate man. The look in his eyes might be held back, cold, but Zitao knows there’s more to every man here, beneath the masks they keep. He wants to believe that someone here, if not for Colonel Zhang, has sense, has vision, a vision of a tomorrow that is free and pure of hatred, bloodshed and mindless massacre. With a thick inhale Zitao straightens his aching spine, tucks down his chin and keeps his arms pinned to his sides, listening to the sand, the small pebbles grate the ground under Colonel Zhang’s boots. He’s heard three noses crack behind his back. Discipline, Zitao presumes, is what he’s preaching. Zhang Yixing seems like a man of strong opinions, strident rules, a man of bottled feelings, a man of issues, smothered thoughts. Discipline, Zitao infers, is what beat him down and brought him up, and so it is discipline that rages within him, lashes out on these soldiers and on Zitao when he halts behind him. The course of his breath runs aroused, quick, and Zitao hears him grind together his teeth. He wonders whether he so hates him because he’s from the other side or purely for the fact that he’s so out of his reach. _Yixing cannot get to Zitao_ — cannot reach his mind to play games, cannot severe his head. 

 

 

A fast strike of the cane whips into the low curve of his spine, knocking him onto the ground on his hands and knees with a wounded cry. He groans, holding the small of his back with a bruised grimace, his scarring lip tearing open and seeping blood down his chin. With an uneven breath he gathers himself, glares at the Colonel’s boots as he circles in front of him, shadow tall, imposing, and growls, “Stand _up_!” Knees wobbly, Zitao picks himself up from the sand, steadies his legs and straightens up, levelling his eyes with the Colonel. There’s an exasperated hurl in his stare, a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and so he strikes him again, across the face, sending him tumbling back to the ground. Zitao cries out, guttural and hoarse as he falls at someone’s feet, and he’s about to be pulled up when the Colonel snarls, “Back in line, Corporal!” The hands that were so close to helping him snap back to the man’s side, and Zitao is left to his own devices, to muster up the strength to get up on his own. “ _Get up!_ ” Coughing blood on the sand, tongue swiping across the bursted scar of his lip, Zitao crawls, rises up on his trembling legs and defies him, meets his stare once again, daring him to strike again, strike _harder_ , with all of his might, strike him down until he’s but a pool of blood and pile of dismantled limbs. Colonel Zhang’s mouth is pressed shut so tight wrinkles form around it. Zitao stares at him, unfaltering, and hisses, “Hit me, Colonel. _Hit me_.” It urges him, maddens in him monstrously, and Yixing grumbles, raising the staff high before driving it into the nationalist’s clavicle, but it doesn’t cause him to fall, so he strikes again, his rage taking over him, and beats him until he’s an unmoving sack of skin and flesh on the sand. The soldiers swallow, watching the abuse in forced silence, in terror. 

“ _Enough!_ ” sounds a roar in the yard, and Yixing mutters under his breath, withdrawing from Zitao’s shuddering body as the intent, strong steps of Lieutenant General Wu rasp across the ground, a door slamming close in his wake as he surges past the officers. “That’s _enough_ , Colonel Zhang!” He takes a hold of his upper arm, pulling him away from the men, but never quite dishonouring his position. The pinch between his brows burrows as he stares down at him, letting go when he’s a few safe steps from the first line of the brigade. Yixing smooths out the creases formed on his uniform and stacks the cane to his side, pressing shut his mouth, taking a brief glimpse at the revolutionary soldier on the ground. Yifan lets out a strained exhale, locking eyes with him, and reminds, “He’s a _person_ , a pilot! He knows how to fly a fucking heavy bomber. If you kill him, I will _personally_ cut off your head.” Yixing opens his mouth to protest, but he really has no argument to present to the Lt. General, and if he were to object, stand up against him, he’d fast find himself facing a bullet. Nobody crosses Wu Yifan, and Yixing knows this far too well, hence he steps out of the way, bows down his head. Yifan nods and makes his way back to the soldiers, in front of the nationalist’s flaccid body.

“Corporal Lu, please help him up and take him to the ward.”

 

 

 

 

Corporal Lu, or Luhan, Zitao finds, is a rather reasonable man. He sees him as a person, a human being rather than a revolutionary soldier, an enemy, looks past the titles and the words, takes him as he is and forgets that he’s a part of the Kuomintang — or was. When he carries him to the ward with the help of two infantrymen, he does so with caution, with care, instead of dragging him away like a soulless rag doll. He minds his head, supports it on his shoulder, an arm wrapped around the hurt of his back. The infantrymen merely follow his lead, but Zitao can see the look in their eyes is pitying, sympathetic. These men are no enemies of his, because none of it is personal. _War_ is not personal. They’re all involved in it, but when they are face to face, they’re just as lost, just as resentful of the horrors of it. They’re all ants, chessmen on a field of spilling blood and shattered velleities. Therefore when Zitao is laid on the bed, he isn’t surprised that Corporal Lu stays behind and sits on a stool next to it, elbows resting on his knees as he watches the medic saunter to the patient, wincing at his injuries before beginning to stitch him up again, for the nth time. 

“You’re prone to getting hurt, aren’t you?” Luhan asks, a sad excuse of a smile on his mouth as he leans closer, examining the younger man’s face. “Ended up on Colonel Zhang’s bad side, didn’t you?” Zitao merely puffs out a huff of breath, which results in blood squirting out and down his already once repaired jaw. Luhan hisses, his brows knitting together. Witnessing the other squirm in such great agony gives him no pleasure. Pain, Luhan thinks, is unjustly distributed and power wrongfully piled. But this one is a fighter, a fighter like he’s never seen before. Zitao doesn’t fight for the Kuomintang, for the sake of the Revolutionary Army, for a loved one. He doesn’t want to fight _at all_ , but if he has to, he chooses to fight for China, for a peaceful, secured China and for himself. Honesty, Luhan supposes, is the source of his fire. To be honest in the moment, to himself and towards others. He respects him for not giving up. It’s admirable, to have such inner strength, to pull oneself up time after time, stand so unmoving in front of a man the whole brigade fears to the core. The medic shakes his head, “One more strike to his back and it will snap for good. Is it truly what Colonel is going for? To break him?” Luhan shrugs, glancing at Zitao, who has allowed himself a minute of rest, closed his swollen, beaten eyes. The ripped wound on his bottom lip is dripping. For a while Luhan wonders if he’s walked without pain since he’s been in the camp. What a terrible faith to lay for someone, to be in such misery; what a cruel destiny to fall in Colonel Zhang’s way. Luhan chews on his lip, tilting his head when the medic turns Zitao onto his side and tends to his back. There are tears in the young pilot’s eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. They merely moisten his lashes. The sun beats down, the air sweltering hot, a bead of sweat gliding down Luhan’s temple when he stands up and states, “The Lieutenant General will want a report on his condition. What should I tell him?” The medic lets out a despondent breath, mouth turning grim, “Tell the Lieutenant General that if this man is struck one more time, he’ll be of no use to us. With a broken back, he cannot fly.”

 

 

The yard has cleared. The soldiers are carrying out their mundane tasks: laundry, brushing dust from the back of the horses, upkeeping the artillery. It is no way to live, to be bound to such an unfathomable routine, constant uncertainty and fear of what might happen if they took their eyes off the sky, if they let their guard down for even a millisecond. Anything could happen. They miss their families — it’s obvious on their faces, in the tedious execution of their movements; they’d rather be playing with their children in the gardens of their homes, making love to their wives, playing mahjong with their parents. Luhan would so much rather be helping his father with the water buffalos, the rice fields, he’d read to his old grandmother, look deep into his mother’s eyes and tell her once more how much he loves her. He’d hold his woman in his arms and vow to never let her go. War is a remorseless visitor to anyone who loves someone. But they carry on, for halting is not an option anymore, not when they are fighting on every possible front, against their kinsmen, against the ferocious foreign force. In the minds of the Japanese, the communist, the nationalist are indifferent. To them they are but Chinese, people to bend according to their will, mould into their rules, a mass crowd to build overpower on. China is history, China is land, and most of all China is people, and even though the Japanese slay and rape them as though they are worthless, their numbers mean more to them than Luhan thinks many realise, for superiority is built from and on the population, their trust, and in the hands of a strategic leader, can be used for utter destruction or salvation. But China won’t yield for Japan, this Luhan is sure of, not today, not tomorrow, not in a million years. 

 

 

He nods his head to Corporal Zhou, who stands upon the steps of the ordnance warehouse, smoking a thin, long cigarette as he eavesdrops the heated conversation coming from the Lieutenant General’s office across the yard. Luhan looks over his shoulder before approaching him, swatting away the smoke the older man blows on his face before coughing, “What’s going on in there?” The thunder of the Lt. General’s low raspy voice carries out to the very last corner of the camp, even through the firmly shut doors and the stone walls. His words are muffled, but it is clear that it is not a very friendly discussion. Zhoumi rolls his eyes, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks on his cancer roll and mutters, “Colonel might’ve gone a bit too far with our pilot captive. He’s been there for a good ten minutes now. Why do you think Lt. General doesn’t let him kill the kid? I mean, it’s not like we’re ever going to equip ourselves with aircraft anytime soon. Where would we even get any? The Revolutionary Army is being supplied by the US, the United Kingdom, _fuck_ , even Sweden. How are we supposed to find heavy bombers when the whole West recognises the Kuomintang as the undisputed government of all of motherfucking China?” Luhan snorts, waving the smoke before turning to look at the door of the Lt. General’s office. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what goes on in the Leader’s mind, what he’s plotting in his residence far from their division, doesn’t know how he plans on finding allies. To be honest Luhan doesn’t really give a shit. He does what he has to now, and he’ll do what he has to when it comes to it. 

“I don’t know, man. Maybe Lt. General has finally had it with Colonel Zhang. Maybe he knows something we don’t and we’ll soon have airforces in our use. Maybe he feels sorry for the poor guy. I don’t know, I don’t question it. You’d better not either. In my opinion, Colonel should step back and let the kid be. He’s tough, you know? I’ve never seen him cry because he’s in pain, and it’s been almost a month since he was brought here. So when you see him, be good, okay? He’s just like us. It doesn’t really matter in whose lines he walks in. He’s a human being, not Colonel’s or anyone else’s punching bag.” Zhoumi shrugs, a sly smirk rising on his lips, “You’ve got a soft spot for the rat, don’t you, Luhan?” But Luhan merely rolls his eyes at him, rubbing the back of his neck and stealing the remains of his cigarette to calm his nerves before he embarks on a journey too short to the Lieutenant General’s office. The smirk on Zhoumi’s face grows a little, but it isn’t ill-willed, rather understanding. A war is a war, but the people are just people. 

 

 

Just as Luhan is about to knock on the office’s door, it bursts open and slams to the stone wall as the fuming Colonel surges out, his fists pale and the grip of his cane fierce. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even notice Corporal Lu as he stomps past him, down the few stairs and disappears behind the corner. Luhan raises his brows at Zhoumi, whose curious gaze follows the Colonel’s hasty steps for a while before bursting into a fit of impish laughter. He shakes his head, dumps the snipe of his cigarette on the wooden pole he’s been leaning against and snickers on his way back to the barracks, shoulders shaking. It might be amusing to him, but Luhan finds little to no joy in seeing the Colonel in such a furore, for his hate and his frustration are unfurling, and if the Lt. General isn’t there to keep an eye on the pilot, his fury will explode and put an end to their hostage. Why Zhang Yixing feels such strong disgust for Huang Zitao, Luhan does not know, but it is without a doubt the purest kind of spite, the kind that is blind. 

“Come in,” Yifan calls from the office, startling Luhan. He takes a calming breath and steps in, bowing deep before advancing towards the man’s desk. The Lt. General looks fairly calm, giving the circumstances and the hurricane Colonel who shortly left the room. Luhan fidgets, his palms clammy. He’s mildly at unease by the situation, but manages to keep his composure somewhat intact. Yifan sighs at the papers before him on the desk before looking up, leaning back in his chair, asking, “What is it, Corporal?”

“The pilot, sir,” Luhan begins, gaining the man’s attention. He wets his mouth, pondering his words wisely. Yifan urges him to go on. “It is not my place, sir, to say this, but Colonel Zhang’s behaviour is out of bounds. His actions are vile and unjust. Though he disciplines us well, he is too cruel. The men will follow orders without being punished with such violence. And the boy, sir, his condition is terrible. He’s —“

“ _‘A boy’_ you say? How old do you think he is, to be exact?” Yifan interrupts, his brows now furrowing with concern, if Luhan reads him right. He blinks, thinking about it for a short while before answering, “Honestly, sir, I am quite certain he is no older than twenty-two. I’ve yet not seen him without a bruise or a swollen eye, but I’m sure he is still very young. He should not be fighting a war.” Yifan leans his chin on his knuckles, a pondering look of worry flashing in his eyes upon hearing Corporal Lu’s words. He heeds them well, thoroughly in his mind. None of them should be fighting the war in the first place. He raises his gaze to meet the other’s, offering a thankful smile, “Thank you. Please, make sure to inform me if such a lamentable occurrence as this noon happens again. I do not want any harm to come to the pilot. I’ve spoken to Colonel Zhang, and he is not to lay a hand _or_ a cane on him, but do tell me if he does. I won’t tolerate it.” Luhan finds contentment of sort in the Lieutenant General’s assuring words, trusting that he’ll make sure to keep Zitao from ever so frequently being carried to the ward from now on. He’s a good man, Lt. General Wu, a just man. Luhan bows, “Yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed, Corporal.”   

 

 

 

 

Yifan stands in the doorway of the ward, arms crossed behind his back, soft cap pressed down on the back of his head. The room is dark, filled with motionless shadows. The medic has left for dinner. The soldiers have retreated to their bunks. Yifan is restless. The pilot lies silently in his bed, all alone with no one to keep him sane, his body ragged and brutalised by the cane. Yixing’s hatred has no limits — he’s too engrossed in the ideology, too deeply fractured by the war and its consequences, the loves he’s lost to it, the reason that was buried beneath it. War, Yifan thinks, is a mindless matter of careless men, an outcome of terror, poor leadership, outrageous demagogues. It is the cloud of an erupting volcano, a drowning lahar, a flooding monsoon storm but far more merciless, far too inhumane. Nothing about it is natural, in any way comprehensible. War, Yifan frets, is waged for petty reasons, in lack of better options, but there are always options, possibilities to choose differently, to prevent misery. War, Yifan knows, is the choice of unstable, unwise men. An intelligent man chooses sensible words over guns. And war, Yifan knows, is lead by _foolish_ men.

 

 

He pushes his tongue on the wall of his cheek, observing the other man from afar, the slight, almost nonexistent movements of his fingertips, the flutter of his lashes. In no way does he approve Colonel Zhang’s vicious nourishment of unneeded apprehension, the unnecessary damages and injuries he causes their soldiers. Often he is nowhere near to witness it, but when he does, he ends it. Yixing’s conception of discipline does not mirror his own perception of proper supervision. He lets out a sigh, taking a step into the room, closing the door in his wake before walking towards the only occupied bed in the ward, sitting down on the stool left by its side. The soles of his leather boots squeak against the floor. Remotely, he hears someone play a harmonica; it’s a sad, heart-wrenching tune, and Yifan wonders who misses the man, for whom he plays. He wonders who’s missing the pilot in front of him. He inspects him, the bridge of his prominent nose, twice broken by Colonel Zhang, the soft curve of his chin, wiped clean of spit and blood. He’s a charming youth under it all. Yifan is caught; Zitao’s right eye cracks open and he finds the Lieutenant General sitting by his side, features calm, the look on his face amiable. For a second he weighs if he should attempt to sit up and bow, but even witchcraft couldn’t conjure up such strength, so he settles to keep his gaze, finding it incredibly gentle, from another world. The Lt. General shifts on the stool, leaning nearer to the edge of the bed with an apologetic smile, “This is the sixteenth time I find you here. I’m sorry, truly. Colonel Zhang is losing his mind. I’m sad to see you this hurt, it was never my wish to cause you such harm.”

“It’s not like I can’t take it, sir,” Zitao mutters, wary of the man’s intentions, but he seems perfectly friendly. “You have visited me before, sir?” Yifan’s smile grows a tad and he clasps his palms together, long fingers entwining when he says, “I have. Corporal Lu keeps running to my every time you end up here. It seems like you have a friend on your side.” Zitao musters up an appreciative smile, coyly glimpsing at the older man. He must be in his thirties, nearing forty, Zitao cannot tell. His features are very youthful, handsome, his black hair brushed back beneath the soft cap. The lenient simper on his mouth calms Zitao, and he has the courage to return it with a hum, “Are you my friend as well, Lieutenant General Wu?” The older laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling, a strand of hair falling over his forehead. Zitao’s chest swells warm.

 

 

It is late, but Yifan is not in a hurry. He has nowhere to be. He examines the younger man, imagines what he looks like without all those bruises, with a healthy lip, if his eyes are truly as pitch black as they seem now in the mellow, murky lights that casts in through the windows. The violets on his ribs bristle, the recently fractured collarbone gathers harsh purples beneath the skin — the man has been heavily abused, yet he’s smiling shyly at him. Yifan takes off his cap, combing his fingers through his hair, meeting his curious gaze, and voices out the question he’s been tossing in his mind for days, “What's your name?” The pilot’s lashes shiver, as if he’s blinking but he quite can’t, “Zitao, sir, Huang Zitao.” Yifan nods, his eyes skimming, taking in, learning. There’s beauty beneath the ripped flesh, a humble, fiery soul held inside those broken bones. 

“Then, Zitao, how old are you?” he asks, his concern over his well-being for a moment taking hold of him, and Zitao realises that he is not a tyrannical man but a kind person, sincere and straightforward. He knows the Lt. General needs the information he has of Kuomintang and the Nationalist Revolutionary Army, knows he needs him because as of now, the Red Army has no airforces, no navy, and he needs him to fly if ever they get their hands on a plane of any kind. Zitao understands why, and he doesn’t judge him for having a logical mind. But it’s curious that now, as he sits there and there’s no one else in the room, he doesn’t inquire about the tactics of the opposing army, if he knows how to overhaul a once crashed aircraft, instead he wants to acquire personal knowledge, approach him, show him that there’s no reason for Zitao to be afraid of him. The glow of his presence soothes Zitao — reminds him of what it means being human, not a soldier, not a puppet of war, and so he looks away, feeling tender heat rising on his temples when he answers, “Nineteen, sir. My birthday is in May.” The look on the Lieutenant General’s face falls — Zitao is too young to be so wrecked in the turmoils of the Civil War. He’s too young to die and he will, if he stays. “Sir, could you tell me what the date is?” Yifan feels his throat tighten. The boy knows nothing of the world outside the tall walls of this camp and no one has told him that the Japanese have poured inland, taken over Nanking and raped it, slaughtered it, burnt it to the ground. Fingers fiddling the cap, Yifan murmurs, almost too gently, “March 27, 1938. You’ll turn twenty soon.” Delight of sort takes over Zitao’s torn mouth, but it turns bitter the following second — he might never see his twentieth birthday. Yifan has the urge to take his hand, comfort him, because he knows exactly what he’s thinking, wants to tell him that he’ll turn twenty, turn thirty, _seventy_ , that he’ll survive this havoc and ignorance, he’ll cross this ocean of blood, tears and lead, but he fights it and keeps to himself, deeming such an action fetching, however inappropriate. Zitao is a prisoner of war in their camp.

 

 

Yet somehow, Yifan sees him in a different light. He doesn’t think Zitao really cares about the conflict between the two armies, the clash of ideologies, rather he cares for China, his roots, the land he’s grown up in, the soil he one day hopes to return to. Zitao visions a China of united men, a China of harmony and peace. The picture he paints is far greater than the one being drawn, and Yifan is overtaken by sudden sorrow, fearing if they’ll ever see a morning that doesn’t rise with the roar of guns. Zitao observes him with spiking interest and clears his sore throat, wincing at the strike of ache that floods all over his body before licking his lips, mumbling, “Sir, I know it is not a great matter of concern to you, but I’m in immense pain. The medic has not returned yet. Could you, please, help me and give me some anodyne for the —“

“Of course,” Yifan says, cutting him off before he has the opportunity to finish his sentence as he stands up, places his cap on the bed by the younger’s feet and moves on to the medic’s desk. On the wall is a first-aid cabinet. He opens it, examines its contents and takes a bottle of pain relievers, brows knitted together. Zitao’s chest is so warm he’s sure it’ll rend asunder. Lt. General Wu turns around, examining the bottle as he returns, briefly stopping by the faucet to fill a glass of water. He sits back down, hair now freely falling over his ears as he hands over the glass, soon remembering that the pilot is heavily pinned to the mattress and cannot move a limb.

“My apologies,” he whispers with a sorry smile, dropping a pill from the bottle onto his palm. Zitao follows his movements, eyes fixed on his large hands, slender, long fingers as they bring the painkiller closer to his mouth, and he parts his lips. The tips of the man’s fingers are hot, salty; the ridge of the glass soon pressed to his mouth cold. He’s a gentle man, Lieutenant General Wu, Zitao thinks, — an incredibly alluring man, elegant. The very flutter of his lashes is benevolent. He wipes away the dripping water from his chin with his thumb, an earnest act of kindness, and Zitao finds his young heart racing. He’s alarmed that the whole room fills with its skipping thuds, that the older hears it, and there’s no way of hiding it nor the blush that rises on his cheeks. Yifan does hear it, loud and strong, but it only causes his smile to grow. He places the glass on the bedside table and takes his cap, rakes his fingers through his hair and places it back on his head. There’s sudden shame in Zitao’s dark eyes, dread that he’s made the older uncomfortable, but Yifan lets out an airy chuckle, brushing out a few stray strands from Zitao’s forehead before stepping back, humbled stare sparkling, “Rest now, Huang Zitao.” He turns away, the plane of his back wide and the stride of his footsteps easy, and for a while Zitao forgets where he is, who he is. He forgets to breathe, but when he does, he no longer feels like his lungs will burst through his rib cage. 

 

 

 

_APRIL_

 

 

Zhang Yixing grates his teeth. The vermin swarms free, its eyes black as char, and he wants to stomp on it, squeeze it, shred it into pieces, watch it scream and slither on the ground. The pilot is a parasite, a thorn in his flesh — an infidel heretical maggot. He doesn’t break before him but bends, rises up and spits on his face. It infuriates Yixing, madly so, and he cannot get to him, cannot get past the Lieutenant General who chooses to keep the nationalist alive, — _“to be of use later on”_. Yixing takes no such bullshit; he knows Yifan’s methods are of a soft approach, but he’s a stern, rational man, an immovable figure, and the way his eyes dart over to the recovering pilot ever so often indicates growing affection that crosses far too many boundaries, a dangerous path for the Lt. General to embark on. More often than not, Zitao returns his disturbingly docile gazes, a startled look on his face before bashfully turning the other way, out of courtesy. It leaves Yixing boiling, for a worm like the Kuomintang’s little bird is a treacherous hazard among their troops, a risky peril Yifan is being lured in, slowly and surely, all too _willingly_. Warning bells ring in Yixing’s skull. For all he knows, the vermin might be filling Lt. General Wu’s head with false truths, lies, twisted thoughts, coveting through his mind, a flaming moth. Huang Zitao is a dangerous crack in their army’s armour — he’s too untamed, too outspoken, too far, too close. When he’s near, Yixing is a perturbation of impetuous decisions, an explosive thundercloud, incapable of ignoring him. He’s loud, he’s silent, he’s strong and he’s weak. Zitao bluffs him, — a clever deception. Yixing cannot understand him, sense him, decompose him. He’s but a clever, cunning shortcut that requires a password, a detour, the stars aligned. He’s a trap Yifan is walking straight into. Yixing can see it, the way the sharp look in his eyes turns tender. Repulsing, nauseating, the look in his eyes is, the way he nods with that cordial smile, overall nefandous. Zitao is healing, the bruises are fading, and as they do, Yixing yearns to create them anew. Each passing day he grows stronger, appears weaker, stands taller, looks smaller. Yixing cannot figure him out. The Nationalists have gained victory over the Japanese in Shantung, and Yixing is sure Zitao possesses black arts. News have reached China that Germany has conquered Austria.   

 

 

Zitao doesn’t take part in the drill, but he’s watching, observing, and Yixing wants to gouge out his eyes, force him in line, smack him down. The cane against his back, he calls out orders, voice hoarse and harsh, rumbling in the yard, and the formation moves with his will, listens to his every word. It gives him gratification, a shock of pleasure, such power. He’s in control, in charge. Everything is in order, _except_ for Huang Zitao; he’s _never_ in order, never under Yixing’s control, never _his_ to command. He’s an afar flock of doves, a coursing river flood, the unexpected. Throat vibrating, breath grumbling, Yixing shouts, “Ground arms!” The yard trembles, the earth beneath the soldiers’ feet hammered, the hot air sizzling and shivering, filled with the noise of the rifles. Yixing is weeding out doubt, building fearless, united men, a war machine. His voice is a callous flash of lightning. Lieutenant General Wu stands on the porch of his office, overseeing the drill, keeping an eye on the pilot, on Colonel Zhang. Power, Yifan figures, is driving Yixing on the verge of madness. Authority is a peculiar thing to be bestowed on a person, for the things one can do with such an influence are beyond imagination, truly daunting. It can create organised chaos. Power, Yifan dreads, will be the end of Yixing, for it overwhelms him. The power within his hands, in his voice, in the look of his eyes is incomprehensible, wild, ungovernable, and though Yixing believes it’s in his reins, it is an insurmountable responsibility to be in charge. It piles on him, the expectations, the necessity of being better than good enough, to be _the greatest_ , to execute this war with perseverance. He’s choking on it, being blinded by it. Power, Yifan knows, often falls in the hands of terrified men, and Zhang Yixing is at his wits’ end.

“Trail arms!”

 

 

 

 

Corporal Zhou happens to like Huang Zitao a great deal. He’s not in charge of the unit Zitao resides with in the barracks, Corporal Lu is, but he sees the young pilot quite frequently nevertheless, often sitting on the wooden benches on the yard, in the canteen, walking along the wall sides of the camp at nightfall when everyone else is retreating for a well deserved few hours of rest. He’s a mysterious man, one Zhoumi cannot open and delve into, one he’s forever left wondering after. He doesn’t talk much yet he does, doesn’t stand close but appears as if on skin, seems detached and cold yet smiles like the sun itself. Funnily enough, he finds his mind filling with questions, where he’s from, his background, how in Eighteen Hells is it that he so suavely, so easily holds something of the Lieutenant General’s around his little finger, how does he scream so loud with so very few words spoken so silently. What is it about him that so riles up Colonel Zhang? Is it the defiance, the youth, the smirk? Is it the ideology, if he even believes in one, the loyalty and for whom it belongs to, where it lies, or the shield Lt. General Wu has built around him? He asks these questions from Captain Han in the setting sun, inquisitive stare fixed on the pilot, who sits upon the porch by the armoury, gazing up at the sky as it begins to light up with stars. The rising crescent moon is pale on his tanned skin, its bronze washing out in the gleam. The swelling of his eyes has settled, leaving behind mere shades of yellows and blues in the corners, beneath his brow. His black hair sways languidly to the balmy breeze, and Zhoumi gets lost deeper in his thoughts. Captain Han nudges his side with an askew smirk, “Falling for the pilot, are you?”

“No, it’s not that,” Zhoumi mumbles, fumbling for the cigarettes in his breast pocket, locking one in his fingers and tucking it between his lips, leaning in for the other to light it for him. The blunt end of it flares in flickering reds when he sucks on it, inhaling the smoke before continuing, “He’s merely fascinating. It baffles me that he’s survived this long. It’s almost as if he’s a mirage, or rather an illusion. He’s there, sitting on that porch, but is he really there or behind your back? He’s staring at the stars, but really, isn’t he looking at the ground? You cannot tell, can you? I want to know how he does it, how it works. Don’t you?”

“I’m more or less baffled why he’s here in the first place,” Hangeng grunts, puffing out smoke into the cooling evening. “Is he a relative of the Lt. General’s? I don’t think so. Is he really a devoted nationalist? No. Does he have a purpose here? Not really, not at the moment. But can he fly a heavy bomber? Yes. Do we have any aircraft? _Fuck no_.” Zhoumi lets out a breath, crunching his nose, “So why do you think he’s here? Do you have any insight? If it were up to Colonel Zhang, the boy would be long gone. Have you seen the way Colonel glares at him? The mere knowledge of his existence is enough to flip him.” Hangeng shrugs, shifting his weight against the wooden pole, examining the pilot. He seems perfectly harmless, but there is something about him that unsettles him. He glances at Zhoumi and hums, a mischievous overtone in his voice, “Has it crossed your mind that, perhaps, Lieutenant General Wu fancies him? You know, _that way._ ” The Corporal sneers, an incredulous tint in the narrow look he gives to the older man, answering, “Don’t be ludicrous! That would be beyond immoral. Their age difference is what, ten, _twenty_ years? How old is he even? Besides, _they’re both men_.”

“Not like it’s not common practice,” Captain Han mutters knowingly, referring to the few incidents they’ve encountered during the years. War does drive men, _people_ , into each other’s arms regardless the gender, the boundaries, overlooking common approval. Zhoumi tilts his head, kicking the sand beneath him, heeding the thought. Hangeng smiles, slightly so, silently smoking his cigarette. 

 

 

It’s not until Corporal Lu joins them after his inspection tour that Zhoumi snaps out of it. Luhan cringes at the smoke, distancing himself from the two and settling down on the bench, swiftly glimpsing over to where Zitao is lost in a world of his own, counting star constellations, perhaps walking on the moon. Captain Han kicks him friendly on his bicep, asking, “You’re friends with the pilot. What’s he like?” Luhan’s brows furrow at the question; he isn’t exactly sure what to answer. Zitao is like sand; first on his palm, the next falling through his fingers. He cannot grasp him, collect back together the exact same shards he lost. He’s like a tide, billowing and certain, yet calm and tentative. A breeze, that sudden well of warmth in a spring lake, a face in a moving crowd of masks. Luhan doesn’t know, but he tells what he’s sure of.

“He’s not a nationalist — he doesn’t have a side. He knows something, yet he might not. He might be playing time to survive. From what I’ve learnt, he’s a clever kid, smart, doesn’t listen to anyone but hears everything. His father was killed in the North, by the Japanese, when he was younger. Not once have I heard him talk about his mother, if he even has one, if he has any siblings or relatives. Maybe he’s alone, maybe he’s got an army of his own. He doesn’t want to harm anyone, yet would destroy every last man on Earth if it came to it.” Captain Han snorts, snuffing out his snipe before lighting up another cigarette, entertained, and asks, “Then what about the Lieutenant General? You see, Corporal Zhou here and I were wondering if he’s taken _a liking_ towards our young pilot over there.” Luhan raises his brows, glancing at Zitao and then up at the two with an amused smirk, “ _A liking_? Sure. The way I see it, Lt. General Wu has a soft spot for him, for whatever reason. It might just be that he feels responsible, for what Colonel has put him through. But you see, I don’t know if you’ve noticed it but Lt. General Wu is a _good man_ , unlike Colonel Zhang.” Zhoumi thinks about it, giving a look in Hangeng’s direction — Luhan doesn’t know Huang Zitao any better than they do. Maybe, just maybe, no one knows Huang Zitao, and maybe everyone does. One cannot be certain. 

“It would be outrageous though, if that truly were the case, you know, if the Lt. General were interested in him that way. It is illegitimate,” Corporal Zhou speaks out, a sudden shiver of disgust crawling up his spine. “For the kid’s sake I hope you’re wrong, ge. For our own sake, as well. To lose a great commander to a scandal as such would doom us all.” Hangeng waves his hand, a chuckle leaving his mouth, “I was kidding, Zhoumi. Just a wild guess.” But Luhan is worrying his mouth, staring at the light inside the Lieutenant General’s quarters, his shadow as it moves, his sharp outline. The poignant, almost shy glimpses Zitao gives the man’s way haven’t gone unnoticed. He’s developing feelings for him, and Luhan cannot stop him from crushing. 

 

 

 

 

Zitao doesn’t know the time, the date, if the tide is low or high. All he knows is that the Lieutenant General is awake, the two topmost buttons of his coat are open, his dark hair no longer tamed. Warmth whirls where it used to be cold, and Zitao feels at ease, languid. The moon is lonely, its pale light on the empty yard cold and holy. Yifan rotates his cap in his hands, arms resting on his knees, right thigh pressing against Zitao’s, only the lightest. He’s drawn to him, knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. There’s something about Zitao that Yifan sees crystal clear; he’s the song in the wind on a dormant winter morning, the hush of the maple leaves on an autumn evening, he’s near and he’s right there, he’s smiling at him and _only_ him, not at the stars up in the sky but the ones in Yifan’s eyes. He’s out of place, a fair feathered dove in the midst of a gunpowder field. There are many things Yifan feels like saying, but in the end chooses not to break the comfort of the night, the silence that has laid itself around them, veiled them under something that doesn’t belong there, on the worn plank porch of the armoury. The bruises on Zitao’s skin are faint. Yifan sees his eyes, — pure, piercing tar eyes — and they’re beautiful, _soulful_. His hair is tucked behind his ears, the collar of his plain long sleeved shirt loose, hanging below his clavicle. It’s April 13, 1938, and Yifan’s heart is tender. Grasshoppers chirr. Zitao bites his bottom lip, pushes the side of his knee against the older’s. The peace being by his side brings lulls him, leaves him lightheaded. The war, it seems so distant and intangible during moments like this, when neither of them speaks, when Yifan oversteps the boundaries but doesn’t quite go about crossing them, when the titles are meaningless and they are but men, vulnerable, unbreakable. 

 

 

There are many things Zitao thinks about saying, asking, but he’s in a good place, so he doesn’t stir it. He’s on solid ground. Yifan’s fingers, they travel up and around the black rim of the soft cap in his hold, but he’s calm, he’s surrounded by a serene sense of familiarity, softness and silent sounds of spring. Zitao’s lids feel heavy, so heavy he lets them close and lays his head on the other’s shoulder, knows he shouldn’t and it isn’t his place yet it is, _his place_ , right where he’s supposed to be. Yifan doesn’t know how long he can keep ignoring the volcano choir inside. He _does_ feel responsible, but more than that, he feels the need to shelter, nourish, hear, hear his voice, the hush of it when he speaks louder than the bombs do, the beat of his heart, how it remains steady yet quickens at times like this. Zitao is young and he’s sure, he’s above and under, left and rightfully wrong. He doesn’t know what lead him there, on the porch of the armoury in the dead of the night, leaning against him, but it seems irrelevant. Maybe they’re both a little lost, a little lonely, in need of company, — and it’s all right. Yifan doesn’t push and Zitao doesn’t pull. The warmth, it spreads through like wildfire, and Zitao wants to be touched, noticed and held. He’s not a pilot, not from the other side, he’s not an enemy, and Yifan is not Lieutenant General Wu, not a commander of the Red Army, he’s not an enemy, but stardust, sand in the wind, foam on the waves, flesh and bone. 

 

 

The breeze brings with it the reek of smoke, the terror, the hope, and Zitao takes in the scent from the Lt. General’s neck instead, the lingering spruce knot, the subtle sweat. He’s in the air, he’s underground. He’s alone and he’s with him. Yifan takes a breath, his eyes darting across the yard, past the windows. He’s inappropriate — he shouldn’t let the warmth roam as freely as it does, shouldn’t inhale the feeble smell of powder and musk from Zitao’s ebony hair. Someone might see, someone might put an end to what Yifan hasn’t quite began. Zitao is a prisoner, an asset of exploitation, a youth of nineteen years, and Yifan’s feelings are out of line, but the way Zitao seeks comfort, his contiguity, only further pins him to the porch, by his side. There are many things he should say to him, tell him this shouldn’t happen, but he finds himself wanting to tell him he’s _handsome_ , that the shine of his eyes baffles him, that he’ll fear for him, how earnestly he yearns to grow under his skin. A small smile on his lips, Zitao takes the Lt. General’s hand in his, enlaces his restless fingers with his own, and Yifan is washed over by a tidal outbreak of sunglow, a flood of flustered skips of heart, ardent urge. It’s overwhelming, the peace he feels at when he tightens his hold of Zitao’s hand, brushing his thumb over the back of his palm, and Zitao shifts next to him, the length of his arm pressing against his own. The moonlight wisps through his lashes. Yifan tilts his head, glancing at him, his closed lids and the gentle line of his lips. He’s too young, he’s of age, he’s black and he’s white, a fault in the shadows, a proud, bold surge of blinding bite. But as his eyes hatch ajar and he meets his gaze, he’s right there, he’s an honest smile and a gracious blush of heat. There’s nothing daring in the way Zitao looks at him, nothing ushering, expecting, but there’s a gleam of rising need, spiralling affection, _fondness_ , and Yifan cannot but return his smile, the cap dropping from his hand. A whisk of wind rushes and coils in Zitao’s hair, a chill on his temples, and he asks, “Are you afraid, Lieutenant General?” His words are soft spoken, and Yifan knows he doesn’t mean the Civil War, the Rising Sun, what comes after — he means _the moment_ , the one they’re both so deep in. Zitao means the ocean trenches between them, the ancient deadwood deserts, the briar thicket that stretches wide and insurmountable in the middle, means the leap he’s trusting Yifan will take to cross the tines, the sharpest of thorns, means the ache in his eyes when his hand moves on the bone of his cheek, the skin of his palm against the blush of his, knows Zitao means the fleeting rasp of his breath when it gets stuck in his throat. Yifan is courageous. He runs fingertips up, down, along the line of Zitao’s jaw, settles them behind the shell of his ear and smiles, “Not in the least.” 

 

 

There are hurricanes in Zitao’s eyes, endless tornado gardens. He wants the man to tip over the cliff, fall into his side and stay, be something of his to touch, his to rely on, be whatever he needs to be at a time like this and let Zitao be his. The air trembles between them, and Zitao leans closer, so close the tip of his nose pushes against the Lieutenant General’s. His hand in his own, Zitao shivers, and Yifan hushes him, pulls him in and looks deep into his coal eyes, whispers, “I shouldn’t.” But Zitao’s lips ghost over his, lionhearted and infatuated, murmuring, “I’m willing.” Yifan’s lids slide shut — he’s amidst a battle, between the stone and the soil, between this wooden pillar and him — his scent, his heat, the sway of his body, and he gives in. Knee to knee, his palm on Zitao’s neck, he kisses him, chaste and kind, satiny soft, and Zitao lets out a low whine, presses further into him. It’s everything it shouldn’t be, yet everything Zitao needs; slow, forgiving and unselfish. Yifan’s nose nuzzles on the side of his, into the velvet of his cheek, and he lets go of his hand for a while, to wrap his arm around the small of his back. Zitao is melting, forgetting, moulding into the present, into the kiss, on Yifan’s tongue when he parts his lips and lets it in. He’s stepping on mines, before hand grenades and walking through ambushed woods, but he’s not afraid. Yifan draws him into his chest, his mouth languid and the grasp of his hand on Zitao’s hip assuring. Arms travel over his shoulders, behind his neck, Zitao’s fingers sink into his hair, and Yifan is committing crimes. He’s afloat, he’s steady on the ground. Zitao’s tongue tangles his own into an ambitions fight, one Yifan surrenders to, and tastes him, explores, finds amenity in the course of his breath and the beat of his chest against his heart. The world is dead calm and not in the middle of a war. Yifan is glowing and Zitao revels in the flames he burns ever so longingly on his lips, leaving them kindling, pinched ripe like lychees on a humid summer eve. They break apart but remain mouth brushing against mouth, and Yifan opens his eyes to meet Zitao’s stunning ones, confident and feverish, searching for his. He doesn’t understand, yet all but _does_ , knows everything is all right, justified, at times like this, knows Zitao is the air and the earth, space and time, a blaze. He’s a billowing, overflowing white water flood and he’s drowning Yifan’s heart. Zitao smiles, his smile rare and uncontrollable, places a peck on his mouth, hums, “An early morning, sir.” Yifan sighs, forehead resting against the pilot’s, and insists, “ _Yifan_.” Zitao kisses him, thumbs caressing the sides of his face, the radiant sheen of moonlight atop his cheekbones. Yifan cannot put it into words, the rush of lambency and thirst he feels when Zitao is near, so he doesn’t. Maybe there simply are no words for it. 

“Goodnight, _Yifan_.”        

 

 

 

 

Captain Han is out of breath. Sweat on his brow, he surges through the gates, the soles of his feet chafing and stomach tight as he bolts his way across the yard straight up to the Lieutenant General’s doorstep. He coughs, sucks in air and slams his fist on the door, calling, “ _Lt. General!_ Open up, sir!” The dawn is yet to break, but Hangeng cannot wait a second longer. “Sir! This is _urgent_!” Wrinkles forming on his forehead, chest rising rapidly, Hangeng spits the taste of iron on the porch and wipes his mouth. The horizon behind the camp walls is only beginning to turn a shade of apricot, painting the clouds in thulians and lavenders, but all he sees is red. The floor inside the Lieutenant General’s quarters creaks, and not a second later the door opens. Captain Han takes a step back, bowing deep as Lt. General Wu greets him, his voice hoarse, hair hastily sleeked back, an unbuttoned cotton shirt hanging from his broad shoulders.

“What is it?” he asks, brows knitting together, foreseeing the man’s words before he can speak them aloud. Hangeng wets his lips, straightening his posture and weighing his report, before beginning, “I’ve been scouting the nearby terrain for the last three days, as you requested, sir. The Japanese have advanced, sir, and they are no farther than thirty kilometres from our base. They have settled a camp in a vale, northeast of here. Approximately five battalions, sir, around four thousand men. More are coming, I assume. What are the orders, sir?” The veins on Hangeng’s neck are strained, his jaw rigid, and Yifan rubs his temples, collecting his thoughts. War, it appears on his doorstep before sunrise, before he even dares to dream of a peaceful day. War, it so seems, has no modesty. He groans and punches the doorframe, raking fingers through his hair. Captain Han swallows, watches the Lieutenant General stare at the planks of the porch for a few short moments before lifting his eyes to meet his. They’re deadly certain, waveless, hard.

“I will send you back to the occupied area with backup. If the Japanese have settled, we have an opportunity to take them down. It’s likely they don’t expect an ambush. I’ll discuss the plan with the officers. Now, wake the camp.”

“Yes, sir!” Hangeng answers and bows, knuckles white as his fists clench tight, nails digging into his palms. Yifan sighs, tired gaze skimming the still empty yard, the closed doors of the barracks, the dust that lifts off the ground. This is not what he wanted to wake up to, but as it so happens, what he wants is insignificant. Hangeng shifts, and Yifan nods, bids, “You are dismissed, Captain.”

 

 

The alert screams throughout the camp, hauling up every last soldier from their bunks, hammering the walls, their ears, the beat of their hearts. Corporal Lu jumps out of his bed, blankets wrinkled and hair dishevelled, yells, “On your feet! This isn’t a rehearsal! Infantryman Li, get the _fuck_ up this instant!” He dashes through the room, banging his fist on the pillars as he passes. “Li, this is _not_ a warning. This is _an order!_ Where the hell is infantryman Shang? Someone find Shang! _Get a move on!_ ” The beds squeak from the hinges, the nails, and the men scramble up, confused and terrified at once as they pull on their coats, the sound of the alarm piercing in their skulls. Luhan throws on his coat, throat swelling with predicament and sense of burden as he rushes the troops, watches the range of emotions flash on their faces; fear, anticipation, trepidation. He finds Zitao lacing up his boots by the edge of his bed, a frown on his face, about to sink under the hustling men. The look in his eyes is diligent, delusive, and Luhan doesn’t know whether he’s a turmoil wreck or a wall of stone. He pats the men on the back as they pass him, calls, “To the yard and in formation! Await further instructions!” Their steps are rash, impatient, a thunder against the ground. Luhan’s brows knit together; Zitao is calm, immovable, _unshaken_ — a wash of dauntless darkness in the shifting, racing crowd. Luhan grumbles under his breath, pushes past the men and takes a hold of the pilot’s upper arm, in hopes of seeing something truthful in him, a clash of horror, something humane, but Zitao is serene, a straw of hay in the wind — bends. Pushing the soldiers forward and out of his way, Luhan drags the pilot out of the barracks to the drifting yard. The whole division stands in the glaze of the sunrise, in strictly formed lines, facing the Lt. General, who is giving orders to Colonel Zhang out of earshot. Corporal Zhou nods when Luhan walks past him. His often unconcerned features have turned grim. Morning mist slithers in the air. 

“Where are you taking me?” Zitao asks, eyeing the men, their faces, the sweat on their temples — a colony of ants preparing for mass murder. He knows it won’t come to it, they know it won’t lead to it, but in their minds nothing makes sense. Luhan worries his mouth, letting go of the younger’s arm, assuming he’ll walk beside him voluntarily. 

“To the front, where you are visible. Lieutenant General’s orders,” he explains, greeting the corporals, the sergeants, his friends. He’s unsure of what’s to come, and it is churning in his guts, the lacerating panic he’s fighting to keep down. He leads Zitao to the first line, in the line he doesn’t belong but has to stand in, out of Yifan’s will. Luhan bows, bids, _‘Lt. General Wu’_ and disappears, rushes through the soldiers back to his own unit. Zhoumi is staring at the dirt on the ground. 

 

 

Zitao glances around himself, behind his back, the endless rows, lines, and finds people he’s walked past at least a hundred times, people’s he’s seen cry themselves asleep, heard tell stories of their children, people whose wives’ names he recalls. Everything they hold dear has been stripped bare for them to fight for, and Zitao faces the Lieutenant General, sees the same harrowing shade swim in his eyes when their gazes meet, and swallows. Colonel Zhang stands a few metres from him, between them a few soldiers, and in this mass of men he’s the same, not Zitao’s superior, not his enslaver, not a figure of utter terror, for it is terror that ever so often takes over him, as it has now, and Yixing is but a voiceless skeleton, armed and determined. After the yard has filled, it drains from noise and empties of pacing, leaving behind a heavy silence. They wait, their eyes fixed on the Lieutenant General, who crosses his hands behind his back and takes a breath.

“This morning I was woken by Captain Han, whom I had ordered on patrol four days ago. He told me that the Japanese are within thirty kilometres from this base camp and have, presumably, taken over our other installations in the East. According to Captain Han, we have five battalions against ourselves — approximately four thousand men, more perhaps. We will not attack them directly; we will ambush. Although we are many and they are few, I will not take the risk of losing our numbers. Stealth and terrain are our best assets. It is up to this division to prevent the Japanese from moving further West. Captain Han will take two infantry companies of his choosing and circle the area. Colonel Zhang will lead the first brigade there, and you will leave this camp before nightfall. The second brigade will be divided into two battalions, one of which will follow my lead to the occupied area tomorrow; the other will stay behind to mind the camp under Lieutenant Colonel Fa’s supervision. War, at the moment, is inevitable. Our country, our history and our people are under attack, facing a ruthless, merciless machine of destruction. Your families, your wives, children, brothers and sisters depend on you, trust that you will defend this land from foreign invaders. This is the time to put our differences, our futile ideological mindsets aside — we need to stand as one.”

“Yes, _sir!_ ” the whole division answers, a thundering echo rumbling across the yard. A shudder runs up Zitao’s spine. Yifan’s eyes are narrow, his figure tall and overall empowering, and Zitao stares at the sand, the fog, the sun. He listens to the orders the Lt. General gives, watches his arms as he cuts the air and the whole division takes a step from the middle, to the left, to the right, and Colonel Zhang steps out of the line, strides in front of the other half with a cold mask of audacity and obedience. He doesn’t spare a look in Zitao’s way, albeit fully knowing he’s right behind his back. Twenty-thousand men shift, mould, move, heed the Lt. General’s every word, and Zitao follows in silence. He’s an ant, he’s a wasp, he’s a voice in the call. He’s irreplaceable. Yixing’s mouth goes sour. 

 

 

 

 

The growth of the terrain is thick, hard to penetrate through. Fallen branches break under Luhan’s feet as he scouts the area in gleaming, dim moonlight that casts in through the leaves of the trees. Behind his back the men advance, cautious and wary of their surroundings. On his left Lieutenant General Wu stands in the shadows, watching the soldiers crawl through the bushes, the misty mouldy ground, his eyes stern and his leather boots smeared in wet soil. Luhan glances at Zitao, who leans his shoulder against an old oak, peering at the mountain range and the acclivity of the hill they spent an eternity surmounting, the broadleaf birches of the middle-elevation of the territory. The forces camouflage in the forest, in the dark of the night, and Zitao sees a sea of venom, a stream of scorpions, squirming and slithering up and down, fall still and proceed. The current pixelates in his eyes, simmers in the dusk and there could be ten, thousand, ten thousand men swelling, surging down the hill, Zitao cannot tell anymore. Luhan’s brows knit and he lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it while saying, “A couple more kilometres. Are you in pain? Does your back hurt?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Zitao hisses through his teeth, “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll just rest a while.” Luhan doubts it, knows better — after all the things Colonel Zhang had the opportunity to do to him, Zitao cannot, by any means and to no dimensions, _be fine_. Why he didn’t stay back and wait in the camp like prisoners do, Luhan doesn’t know, doesn’t really care, but for his health’s sake he shouldn’t be climbing the Qin Mountains and misstepping over roots. Zitao is, however, a fraction of light, a gulch of evenfall, he’s of cold stone and melting honeycomb. He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. 

 

 

Luhan worries his mouth, adjusting the strap of his rifle as he watches the men snake through the woods. He wants to believe that Zitao has no ulterior motives, that he’s a passenger of this war, driftwood on its coursing crests, but he cannot be certain. Everything about Zitao fights against something — his diligence the clouds he seems to be walking in, his valiance the pain that strikes through his being, his frigidity the warmth that could thaw glaciers when the Lt. General steals a glimpse at him. Luhan isn’t blind — he sees it, perfectly clear, the way Lt. General Wu’s features soften every so often. The day they left the camp to embark on their mission, there was agony of sort in his usually stoic eyes; something Luhan could relate to, to his own bafflement. He knows it, the disquietude and the anxiety, yet it was out of place in the Lt. General’s eyes, didn’t quite belong there, not that Luhan knew of. But now, as he oversees the privates swarm through the forest and stands in the oak’s shadow with the pilot, it’s obvious, the care and concern that swims in the man’s gaze when he looks over at them and sees Zitao grit together his teeth. It startles Luhan to a degree, to see such a formidable person suddenly seem so human, someone who longs for and wishes to ease someone dear’s pain, apprehension and plant seeds of comfort instead. And Luhan knows that it’d be out of bounds, against the protocol, in war with everything they’re meant to believe in, but as he witnesses the Lieutenant General almost take an impulsive, subconscious step towards them, across the rapid of soldiers, he finds he doesn’t mind, wouldn’t tell and couldn’t see the wrong in something so earnest.

 

 

Yifan cannot leap over to the other side, cannot lift Zitao off the harsh bark of the trunk, but most of all cannot show him compassion, regardless of how much he wants to and Zitao needs him to. He’s leading an army, has guidelines to follow and restrictions to keep to. Zitao knows this and doesn’t ask for it, doesn’t give away whatever it is that’s been built between them, doesn’t risk it now when he yearns it the most. He’s not fragile. He glares at Corporal Lu, who merely shrugs and nods his head, “Let’s move along. We’ll reach the vale soon enough. You’ll be able to rest there.” Zitao wants to protest, tell him he’s come to the end of his road, but he’s in no such position. A soldier is a soldier, and this, — this massive, frothy foaming, gushing flood of an army, — is where Zitao belongs for the time being. He’s a wheel of the wagon, a pillar among the structures of its undisputed absoluteness and he’s a daisy in the garden of primroses. He’s not weak and this too shall pass, the next minute, the following hours, in a matter of days. War, however cruel and overpowering, may break men into doing inexplicable deeds, but Zitao will not shatter just because it broke Zhang Yixing. So he pushes himself off the oak, straightens his posture to the extent he’s capable of and follows Corporal Lu, keeping an eye on the ground, the branches of the trees high above and the obscure distance. The forest is striped in light and in travelling shadows, laden in silence and replete in muffled whispers. Zitao feels the Lieutenant General’s presence, his eyes fixed on his back, and he wants to tell him to stop worrying, stop concentrating on him when his attention is needed elsewhere, but he understands him, for when it is his turn to watch Yifan lead the forces over the last rise before their destination, Zitao cannot bring himself to look away, in fear of losing him. It is impossible to move fast in the woods, in this resolutely advancing horde, but as Yifan’s tall figure merges, dissolves and becomes one with the birches and hornbeams, Zitao gets caught trying to keep up with him, trying to reach him. Luhan grabs a hold of his wrist, pulling him back. Zitao stops dead on his tracks, for a second facing the other before turning his head to search for the Lieutenant General. Luhan shakes him and mutters, “He’s the commander; he knows bloody well what he’s doing. No harm will come to him. Now get a grip of yourself and _don’t let it show._ ”

“What?” Zitao ends up asking while he processes what the older said. Luhan rolls his eyes, murmurs, “ _That you care for him_.” Zitao wants to say he doesn’t, that Luhan is delusional and there could never be anything between Lieutenant General Wu and him, but he keeps quiet. He cannot deny it; cannot bring a lie alive just to shake him off. Luhan lifts his brows, offering an understanding, brief smile before continuing onward. 

 

 

Zitao doesn’t know what it is he feels for Yifan, but he doesn’t want to name it. Perhaps it doesn’t have a name, such awareness of one another, the kindling sensation that blurs Zitao’s body and leaves him glowing. Perhaps it really doesn’t exist at all, the veil of smoke and smouldering sparks, the haze that has him leaning into his chest, building a fortress in his embrace. Perhaps it is an illusion of circumstances, perhaps it is an aligned fate of universal blessings or a damage done due to internal struggles from both sides. Zitao doesn’t want to put his finger in it, nail it in place and in time, but Yifan occupies a great deal of his mind. While it leaves him suffocating, it fills him with such delicate, beautiful thoughts that he cannot wish such a drowning, whisking feeling away. So he lets it be; lets it surface and climb. Corporal Lu walks by his side with a firm grip of his rifle as they approach the first brigade, Colonel Zhang and Captain Han, who await them just before the slope of the vale where the Japanese have encamped. Zitao doesn’t know what will happen or if anything will, but he knows he’s part of it. He trails after Luhan, minding his steps and immersing himself into the flow of the crowd that creeps up the steep of the hill. Everywhere he looks, until the end of his eyesight’s reach, the ground is a heavy slide of arms. Zitao wants it all to turn into ash and blend, turn one with the roots, the blossoms, the worms. No longer does he see Yifan or Corporal Lu as the trees, the shadows grow. He narrows his eyes, pushing forward. Colonel Zhang didn’t want him to stay in the area base, suspicious he’d attempt something, yet he didn’t want him on the mission either, convinced that he would violate their scheme and reveal their position to the Japanese, out of spite, but his word weighed nothing against Lieutenant General Wu’s. After the first brigade left the camp, Yifan pulled Zitao aside, lead him into his quarters and traced the outline of his cheek, knuckles chilly and voice tender, asked “Will you stay, or will you come with me?” Zitao kissed the corner of his plump, satiny mouth and whispered, “I’ll go with you.” He didn’t think twice about it — there was nothing to think about.  

 

 

Colonel Zhang, upon seeing him reach their post, visibly tenses and nearly bolts from his position. Zitao stares at him, challenging him to humiliate and lay a hand on him, knowing it severely triggers the man. He grates his teeth — Zitao can tell from the way his jaw clenches and the pale light hits the skipping muscles of his neck. Both of them know that any sudden movement could expose them to the Japanese, and so Zitao doesn’t confront him further, only lifts up his chin and looks at him long enough to unsettle him so utterly that he sits back down on the ground, the cane in his grip nearly splitting in half. Zitao knows men like him; so up to their head full of ignorant, possessive power that leaves them suffused and incapable of seeing what it’s doing to them. Men like Zhang Yixing get a taste of authority and reign and it consumes them, erodes away the fear that made them and turns them into a typhoon vortex waiting to expire. Men like Zhang Yixing fix their aggression, their insolent self-disgust and the gyre ravishing within on others, on easy, outstanding targets. Men like Zhang Yixing _destroy_ themselves. Zitao will wait for the day he burns out with patience. Luhan appears from the shadows, taking a hold of his arm to pull him away, to take cover on the ground. They move slowly and surely, keeping their heads down. Luhan’s face is tarnished in coal and dirt, and Zitao thinks he should do the same to merge into the forest. 

 

 

The air smells of cut down wood and fresh splinters, turned over earth and rising early morning hour dew. It reeks of smoke, resin and sweat, of the kilometres they travelled and the lovers they cried over in silence, in the peak of the night when it was safe. Luhan told him about his family on the way, about the woman of his life and the dreams he wants to live to fulfil. He told him about his hometown down in the West where rice fields stretch far to the horizon and up the highlands, what shade the sky was on the day the war broke and how he felt when he first was struck down by Colonel Zhang. He smiled bitterly, adjusting his rucksack and bid, “You’re lucky to have the Lt. General on your side. He’s a good man.” Zitao nodded, glancing up from the ground to look over to where Yifan was walking, a tender simper pulling the corner of his mouth. Luhan tugs his sleeve, says, “I’m going to find Corporal Zhou. He shouldn’t be too far. Stay here and stay low.” He turns around, ducking down into the lush greenery, completely disappearing in it. Zitao’s gaze follows the parting of the leaves of the ferns, the pipe of his rifle and he listens to the rustle that crackles beneath his shoes. Glancing around he sees silhouettes, moulding figures of black wax on the cold soil, waiting. Someone grabs his arm, and he flinches, turns around. Yifan raises a finger on his lips and takes his hand in his own. 

 

 

 

 

“How did you become a pilot at such a young age?” Yifan asks, nose pressed against Zitao’s. It’s silent around them. Only the wind blows effortlessly in the leaves of the birches and the needles of the firs, sveltely playing in Zitao’s hair. He’s resting on his chest, heart against Yifan’s, their fingers intertwined. War is a distant illusion, an age old tale he thinks he heard a million years ago. Some of the men are catching up on sleep while the rest keep guard, but Zitao is in Yifan’s arms a safe distance away, thigh to thigh, palm to palm, lips grazing the line of his and he thinks he wants to kiss him until the break of dawn. He smiles, thumb brushing up and down the side of Yifan’s forefinger, murmurs, “I really didn’t have a choice.” It was never about what he wanted or wished to contribute to. After a brief basic training he was ordered under the command of an American captain among a few other young men, and he taught him how to pilot a plane, how to repair a broken engine, when to launch the bombs. He was a great man, Captain Smith, and believed he was fighting for the right men, for a just cause, for free, united China. Zitao sees now that all of them, every single one of them believe in their own reality, in their own stance and are sure no better alternative exists. Who’s to determine which side is wrong? As he looks into Yifan’s eyes and sees them glimmer, sees the astral truths and the clashing riverbanks fall, he knows he’s asking because he’s curious, because he wants to get closer — not to use it against him. 

“What does it feel like, flying?” Yifan speaks upon his lips, breath warm on his flesh. He’s always wondered what the world looks like from above where the clouds drift, where the seagulls soar, if it all looks so small and pointless from high up. He’s never seen it, but Zitao has and it amazes him. Brow to brow, Zitao leans in the distance between them and kisses him softly, keeps it languid, and Yifan’s arm tightens around his back when they part. 

“It’s liberating,” Zitao whispers, lashes flittering in the cool breeze as he gazes up at the sky, its firmament bright and full of stars. “It’s beautiful — it takes your breath away and leaves you baffled, leaves you feeling like you’re absolutely nothing and you’re precisely everything; you’re a cloud in the fleet and you’re the sun; you’re the exhaust fumes and you’re a God; you’re a drop of rain and you’re the thunder. It’s terrifying, to know that all that lies beneath you is for you to destruct. You can’t see war from up there; you can’t see the blood nor the sorrow; you can’t see the people as they flee from their homes; you can’t see death. It’s peaceful, it’s excruciating. When you release the bombs you want to look down and you want to keep your eyes from the horrors of your own making, but you end up looking at your own reflection from the glass instead. But flying, just _flying_ , is the freest I’ve ever been.”

 

 

Yifan pushes his nose in the hollow of Zitao’s cheek and kisses his jaw. He aches to know what it feels like, _flying_ , wants to launch himself to the wide open space above and see the world grow small, the people shrink, the walls break and crumble onto the ground, wants to see it all, the war, the men, the boundaries disappear into the dust of the earth, beneath the cloud blanket. Perhaps it would give him the serenity he yearns so gravely. Perhaps it is Heaven he hopes to rise, but no one’s going to Heaven. It simply doesn’t exist. The closest he feels to it is when Zitao’s fingers travel up his neck, brush through and he cages his lips, his kisses a sinkhole of spiralling rush, something Yifan has the courage to believe nears devotion and trust. He lets his eyes close, squeezes Zitao’s coat in his fist and runs his tongue promptly down the corner of his mouth, tracing it. A thin mewl escapes Zitao when he pushes in closer, as close as he can get and lets Yifan in, wants him to consume the everything and the nothing and what remains in between. He yields, he controls, — he’s his equal. Yifan tastes real, of flesh and salt, _otherworldly_. Zitao loses himself in the flow and the feel of his tongue caressing his, how airy and light his moans are as they get muffled on his skin, stuck on the web of saliva, how his hand sneaks down and under his clothing, pushing up the hem of the coat, hesitating over the fabric of his shirt. 

 

 

Breaking for air, Zitao places a fond, delicate peck on his chin, murmurs, “I want you to touch me. Hold me. _Drown me_.” Yifan suffocates on his own breath and steals Zitao’s instead, lifts up the cotton and runs his palm up the muscles of his back, fingertips pressing into and over the valleys and hills of his rib cage. The skin beneath is hot and smooth, shivering. Zitao is sculpted and carved sharp, he’s moulded and melted soft and has curves Yifan didn’t know a man could have. He’s delectable, he’s comfortable and he’s ineffable. Yifan is lightheaded. It is not the right place nor the right time, but there’s nothing he wants more than to connect with him, feel every inch of his skin and drape himself in his scent, in all the words he speaks and the ones he chooses to keep inside. 

“You’re so warm,” he mouths, eyes so dark Zitao thinks he’s holding a whole another universe within them. Yifan’s hand strokes leisurely up and down, fingers ghosting over his ribs, and Zitao gives in to a moan that climbs up his throat, — he wants to go further than this, collide in the gunmetal night and tremble, wants Yifan’s large, safe hands travelling up the backs of his bare thighs, to feel him up, gently leave him bruising, wants to shed him from his coat and taste his flesh, nest in the heat of his body, forgive and forget, but he knows the limits and doesn’t ask for more, fully knowing Yifan would kiss him harder without a second thought, regardless of the consequences. Yifan doesn’t spare much thought to consequences or what ifs or whether he’s caught aching this strongly beneath Zitao’s weight or not.  

 

 

Yixing’s knuckles are white around the cane. 

 

 

 

 

Long before the sun rises in the East, Captain Han has lead a battalion of men down to the valley. The greenery is lusher, the bushes thicker. The moon has faded off into the pastel sky, but it is still dim in the shadows of the mountains. They creep through the foliage, knees scraping the rich, soft soil. Breath fogs in the chilly early morning hour. Luhan bites his lip, trying to keep himself as quiet as he possibly can while they prowl under the shelter the forest provides, keeping an eye on everything that moves. He barely got any sleep, but he’s alert and he’s ready. Last night he found Zhoumi dozing off with his back against a tree and his rifle resting on his lap, muzzle pointing at him when he approached him. Careful not to startle him, he circled to his side and nudged his shoulder, “We’re all here. Where’s Captain Han?”

“Captain’s on a lookout,” Zhoumi said, lids hatching open the slightest as he looked around. “Where’s the pilot? I thought you were supposed to watch him.” Luhan nodded; he was supposed to watch Zitao, make sure no harm came to him and he caused no harm in return. He shrugged, “I told him to wait where I left him. He will.”

“Where’s the Colonel?” Zhoumi hissed, jolting off the bark with a flash of panic in his eyes, and for a while Luhan’s heart was up in his throat. Now that he thinks about it, he probably shouldn’t have left the pilot unguarded for multiple reasons, the first and foremost being the Colonel, but there were things to discuss with Zhoumi, important matters to delve in before the attack. He had a reason to believe that Zitao would be fine. Captain Han is squatting in the flourishing coppice, spying the camp. Luhan puffs air into the collar of his grey uniform, steadying his breath as he scans the scenery behind his back; men fused into the soon lifting darkness. The plan is simple: pilfer any weapons visible, destroy any found carriage, locate the commander’s tent, burn it and spread the fire when retreating. Luhan is sceptical of it, but Lieutenant General Wu is a wise man and wouldn’t send his troops on a mission destined to fail. Besides, anything is better than direct, conventional warfare. The chances of surviving are higher.

 

 

The camp is silent, still drowsy and unconcerned when Captain Han signs for the men to move. Luhan’s throat is tight and he thinks of his woman, the softness of her embrace and the scent that lingers in her neck. Hangeng shakes Luhan’s shoulder and nods his head, beckoning him to follow close behind. They snake out of the dense forest keeping themselves low. Their shadows long on the walls of the tents, steps shaving the ground beneath their boots they advance, creeping up to the corners and behind the leafy trees. A handful of Japanese soldiers snooze by a narrow stream, drifting off between this life and the next. Luhan swallows, but he has no time to think of what will happen any further, because Hangeng signs two men to follow his lead, Luhan close by his side, to eliminate them. Captain Han pulls out a knife from his belt, sneaking up to one of the soldiers as Luhan does the same, private Cho and Ling following suit. When their throats are cut, palms tight over their mouths, they merely whimper and cough for air as life runs, seeps out of them like the water flows in the stream. Their eyes grow wide, terrified and blood rushes up and around the white, smearing, blinding. Luhan grits his teeth and pulls the man’s head back, almost completely severing it off. He stops shaking, stops spitting on his palm, — dies. With little to no remorse Luhan lowers the soldier on the ground, wary of making any noise. A mission is a mission no matter what might come, but a man dead is a father, a lover, a brother, a son lost. A man dead is someone’s dear forever gone. A pile of flesh and fresh blood forms by the narrow stream, and Captain Han steps over it unceremoniously, leaving Luhan wondering if he’s built an emotionless wall around himself just for the sake of this war or he feels no guilt at all. Their battalion has circled the main area of the camp; cut the reins of the horses; drenched the gunpowder; taken any arms left outside the tents. A mission is a mission, _a task_ , their job for the time being, and Luhan finds that guilt is not a creeping, fleeing feeling. 

 

 

Yifan watches the attack from their post, hands behind his back, fingers enlaced. Everything is proceeding according to plan. The Japanese are too arrogant, too self-assured — to ambush an enemy at rest is easy. He glances at his side, a small, barely noticeable smile rising on his lips. Zitao keeps a hard stare on the vale, on the troops, on Corporal Lu and Captain Han. They’re far down, but he sees their movements sharp in the mist that slithers through the forest. He doesn’t worry for them; it isn’t his place. His mission is to stay quiet, stay put, stay where Yifan can see him without moving an inch, — on his right, in the shadows of the maple trees, an MP 18 steady in his grip. Behind him Captain Wang caresses the barrel of his vz. 24 rifle, chewing on a batch of tobacco. Zitao takes a breath, shoulders broad and feet planted into the airy, musty earth. He’s a bystander, a tree alike the maples, the firs, the tallest of oaks, he’s but an unwilling witnesser of the wrecks of this war, he’s an unfurling whirlwind that reels the leaves off the ground, the very arms that dictate the direction, the motion of this insane slaughter of lives. Yifan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift when their battalion faces combat, but Zitao’s hold of the rifle tightens and flashes white as the screams echo up the steep walls of the mountains. The Japanese open desperate fire, one by one crawling out of their tents, and Zitao wants to turn it all to dust and rain on it. Yifan places his hand atop his, forcing him to lower his weapon. He eyes Captain Wang, who spits out the wet slump of tobacco on the ground and nods, turning away and moving along their lined forces. Zitao cannot catch his words, cannot concentrate, but he knows well and by heart what he’s saying. It travels through the line like a flash of lightning, from mouth to ear, from ear to mouth, and Zitao watches them bring up their rifles, hears the cartridge rattle. For a heartbeat everything slows down; he sees the inhales they take, how the cheeks hollow out and puff; sees the muscles and the veins skip and string; sees Luhan light up a petrol bomb in the midst of the smoke; sees the words that form on Captain Han’s mouth when the explosion of it leaves them deaf and they scramble into the cover of the forest. 

“Open fire!” Yifan commands, and Zitao looks at him when it all blurs out around him, when the world washes in the incessant, numbing rumble of guns. The vale turns into a pit of corpses, into a pulping lake of torched flesh and burnt teeth. Yifan lowers his gaze to the ground, his ears filled with the racket of the heavy machine guns shaking on each side, and when no one sees, Zitao takes his hand and holds it in his. 

 

 

 

 

“So far we’ve gathered fifty Nambu pistols, semi-automatic with an eight millimetre caliber, sir. Sixty-seven G98s, German bolt-action Mauser rifles, sir. Two hundred Type 99 rifles and counting, sir. The pit is full of light machine guns, Type 11s and Type 96s. Once the smoke fades, we will return to collect them, sir. There were a few heavy machine guns, Type 92s I assume, too. Probably in immaculate shape. We’ll gather those as well. Plenty of ammunition that we can use. A fair booty for the kill, sir, if I may say. What are your orders, sir?” Yixing quirks a brow, eyeing the Lt. General and Captain Han, whose face is smothered in coal and dirt. Blood seeps through his coat, wetting the fabric and smearing the grey in vermillion. Corporal Lu is leaning on his knees, panting and spitting at his feet, sweat sliding down his temples. Lieutenant General Wu inspects the captured weapons the battalion brought up with them from the valley, but he pays little to no mind to it. Instead he says, “Find a medic, Captain. You’ve been shot.” Luhan straightens up, glancing around with a grim frown, yelling, “Where the fuck is the medical team? Private Yang, find me a combat medic! Captain Han and Private Lin have been shot. Corporal Song is missing a leg. Get a move on!” Yixing wriggles his nose, brows furrowing as he examines Lt. General Wu’s movements, the blank expression on his face, the way his body gravitates towards the pilot, almost leaning to where he’s standing; a little _too close_ to his side. Yixing sees past that paper thin facade — and he’s _abhorred_. 

 

 

 

_MAY_

 

 

The journey back to the base area over the Qin Mountains is slow, weary, filled with relaxed chatter and relieved laughter, but Luhan doesn’t feel joy; he cannot join the short moment surely doomed to die. He glares at the privates as they joke about, how they so soon seem to have forgotten the horrors of war, how easy the stride of their steps is now that its ruins lie behind their backs in the valley that used to blossom and flourish, where wilderness thrived. Luhan’s feet are heavy like they’ve been cast in cement. The screen of his vision teems and bustles, a terrible mess of his own making, disfigured faces, dismantled limbs, ragged ridges of torn arms and legs, blunt stumps of bones. If death is a joke to someone, he wonders if it’ll still be a joke when they’re in its hands for good, staring into its eyes. Death is the ultimate end, the only certainty in all this dubiety that shapes and gives new name for the war. Nothing is sure, nothing is lasting, nothing is forever. Nothing is everything and everything is nothing, and that’s the truth Luhan has come to. The pain, it’s nothing. The outcome of it all, it’s nothing. Whether he lives to see what’ll happen, it’s nothing. No one lives forever to find out where all of this is going, where the end is and what lies there, in the end, if there’s nothing at all to be found. No one knows if all of this is worth it, and yet they’re all pushing through, as if once they’ve reached the end they’d return to tell what was there. Luhan listens to Heaven, even when it doesn’t answer him. God has fallen asleep or is still creating. Maybe, perhaps beyond the skies, the space, he’ll get an answer, a hush once upon his dying day, someday, but the road is long, so, so long to travel alone. He wonders if it is safe to go outside where his family is, if it is safe to open the door or look under the carpet. He kicks the moss and the twigs, glances at his side; Hangeng is staring at his feet, minding his steps, holding his arm. Luhan looks around, hair tickling the side of his face and nearly breaks into a sob seeing the men dismiss so coldheartedly the weight that they carry on their shoulders. They’re only happy to be alive, — it’s nearly naive. 

“Lighten up, Corporal,” Hangeng mutters, but it’s an empty encouragement he musters up. Zhoumi drags his feet behind him, wriggling the cap of his canteen, offering a lighter to the private holding up a cigarette next to him. Luhan’s head is a vague, obscure muddle and the forest, in that moment, is a cloudy infinity. He halts dead on his tracks, stares hard at the puckered leaves and the trails on the ground before hastily pivoting around, searching, mouthing out, “Where is Zitao?”   

 

 

Yixing’s provoked, triggered. Zitao doesn’t know where he is, where Yifan is, if anyone hears him. Yixing is a madman — he has no bounds, no reason left within. He’s throwing him into the trees, onto the soil, onto the roots that push off the earth. Zitao doesn’t beg for mercy. From the distance he hears thunder rise, how it coils in the air and rumbles above and around. The ground too seems to shake. This is the past and this is the now. Zitao remembers the shattering pillars, the breaking marble, the tearing murals on the walls, remembers the dusty sand of the yard, remembers all the times he’s heard him spit ‘ _get up’_. He thinks he hears someone cry, thinks he hears an airplane crash, thinks it’s acid that’s pouring from the sky. Yixing is exploding, bursting and blowing up all over, his features gruesome and malformed, skin tight and the back of his throat ripped and shredded, his voice hoarse from accusations, from screaming. Zitao hears none of it — he blocks it, doesn’t listen. He doesn’t feel human. Yixing smashes his cane into him, repeatedly, and it infuriates him that Zitao doesn’t fight back. Zitao doesn’t cry, doesn’t shudder, doesn’t _yield_ , and Yixing has lost his mind. Roaring, he casts the cane aside and drives his fist into Zitao’s bones, ingesting the splintering and the inaudible noises escaping from the pilot’s tongue. He grates his teeth, “No one will rescue you. _No one can hear you_.” Zitao stares at him with bloody eyes, swelling lids sore and open from the corners, bleeding down his face. Yixing’s chest rises and falls so rapidly that Zitao is sure his heart will blast out of it, almost hopes it would. Every vein on his neck, down his arms, up his temples is throbbing, pulsing hard and fast, strained, and the look in his eyes is incomprehensibly out of this world, so severely mutilated and ruptured that Zitao almost wants to give him the satisfaction and fight, but he has no strength. He’d rather lie on the ground, a corpse like the rest, and take the blow, the hit, the rustle of knuckles into his skull. Yixing grumbles, the grip he has of Zitao’s collar tightening, squeezing air out of his throat.

“You thought you could swarm your way in and brainwash the Lt. General? Did you take me for a _fool_?” he hisses, spit splattering on Zitao’s face, breath hot on his skin. Zitao doesn’t answer him, doesn’t listen to him. He’s floating, drifting off to the halls of the _Zhanshan_ _Temple_ , to the riverside of _Huang He_ , back to the nights he listened to Yifan’s heartbeat, _thud thud thud_ , sure and steady like the rise of the sun. 

 

 

Yifan swallows, turning around to look behind his back. He sees an avalanche of men, all dressed the same, all moulded the same, made of tin. He knows he shouldn’t go back, knows he shouldn’t risk this, knows he shouldn’t worry for Zitao, but his heart, it skips uneasy in his chest and pulls him to the other direction, against the tide. Elbowing his way through he looks for the tar eyes he wants to drown himself in every evenfall, a sting in his throat, looks for Zitao’s tall, lean shadow, breath clinging to the root of his tongue as it turns heavy in his mouth, tastes of metal and bites around the gums. He lets the doubt, the trepidation eat its way to his senses. It feels like an eternity since he last recalls seeing Zitao walk by his side, just slightly behind his back, a few metres from him. He doesn’t remember losing him. Perhaps he’s fine; perhaps he’s with his friends. Yifan knows he shouldn’t so visibly care for him but he _does_ and there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from ramming through the flood of soldiers, the pinch of his brow deep and stubborn. Chest heaving, beads of sweat forming on his temples, he looks around, searches, calls out a silent _’Tao?’_ into the swirling air. The sky above breaks. Water begins pouring down, first in single, isolated drops, soon rushing on them with force, immersing. Yifan bats his lashes, narrows his eyes, shouts, “Has anyone seen Corporal Lu?” The soldiers around him halt and bow, waking up to his presence, and a private comes forward, says, “Sir, I saw Corporal Lu approximately ten minutes ago, sir. He was with Captain Han, Corporal Zhou and Private Tian. He was heading that direction, running, sir. He seemed to be in great hurry, sir.”

“Thank you, Private Deng. As you were,” Yifan mutters and hurries forward through the white washed wall of rain. The earth turns wet, drenches and wells, sucks in every step Yifan takes and he feels like it is absorbing him whole, pulling him down to the gates of _Diyu_ to atone for all the sins he’s been committing in this life, to wage war on his poor soul. He forgets he’s an officer, forgets his standards and his ego, forgets the guidelines he’s supposed to keep to. The moist air runs thin through his teeth and he calls for Corporal Lu when he cannot call for Zitao. He’s blaming himself, sinking further down, deeper into the distress that has taken over his body and his mind. He should know where Zitao is. _He should know_.

 

 

Zitao feels the rain pour down, feels it wash away the blood and lather him up, soak through and past his skin. It cascades down from Colonel Zhang’s hovering, disoriented body that stands over him, pins him, stomps on his ribs and on his knees. Zitao wants to get up, strike him, unnerve him, but he’s one with the earth, with the soft, muddy soil he’s been pushed into. There’s little he can see anymore; it’s all blurry, dirty red and unfocused. Still he stares at the man, hard and with an unfaltering smirk on his split lips, blood swimming in his eyes and over the pitch black orbs, oozing out of the corners. This could be the end, and if it is, he’ll embrace it. The end is inevitable regardless of how long you’ve lived, how well you’ve walked, how gently you’ve loved. The end comes for all. Zitao only wishes it were another man’s face he sees before letting go. He wishes he’d see Yifan’s tender auburn eyes, the soft, nearly shy smile on his mouth, see the certainty and the affection. He wishes he could feel the throb of his heart, the pulse of the coursing rivers within him, the safety of his long arms, — he wishes he could feel the _warmth_. The world roars around him, the sky, it weeps and rages, and Zitao cannot tell apart the thunder, the lightning, Yixing. His limbs are slack. He thinks he hears the rapids gush, thinks he hears the ground give in under someone’s feet, thinks he hears someone call his name. He can’t feel his face anymore. The sounds grow distant, they grow soothing and hollow. The back of his head hits a rock. Breaking for air he hisses, hauls in a thin breath and grins, the plush of his lip fully bursting, but Yixing won’t see him cry. Around him the forest stands tall, stands ancient and ever-old. He thinks he hears a lightning strike or a gun fire, he can’t be sure. The sky above is red, the trees are red, the shadows are red, turning black. The rain feels almost lulling on his skin, of something he knows he’s been yearning for, in secret and out in the open. He wonders what awaits there, on the other side of this realm. He hopes it’ll be nothing at all. 

 

 

Yifan sees red; he sees Yixing on top of Zitao’s unmoving body, sees the blood, sees the smile that remains on his mouth. Yixing is out to _kill_ him. He’s in a daze, caught up in his rage, the hatred and the doubt, as if in a trance. Luhan pushes on past the trees, his muscles aching and burning from running. He leaps over the narrow mountain streams, the lapels of his coat flaring, water surging down his back. He’s up to his knees in mud. Yifan grimaces, the air in his lungs stripping out his flesh. Zhoumi lets out a furious growl under his breath, lunging at Yixing, who only has the time to turn his head before being sent to the ground. Luhan charges at him, landing a lead hard fist into his face, shoving him from side to side. Yixing is taken aback, ambushed, unable to collect his composure or his instinct to fight. He groans, attempting to dodge the blows Luhan aims at him. 

“Back _off_ , Corporal!” he bellows, spitting out blood and tainted spit from his mouth, coughing, but Luhan doesn’t relent. Zhoumi has him pinned to the ground. Yifan collapses on the moss by Zitao’s side, vision blurred and out of breath, hands shaking when he reaches out to touch the side of his face. He gathers him, tries to stitch him together, tries to hold him close. A thin wisp runs through Zitao’s broken lips, and Yifan’s heart jumps into his throat as he leans down, presses his forehead against his and mumbles, “Everything is going to be all right. I’m _here_. I won’t let you go.”

“We need a medic here! _Private!_ Get the surgeon!” Zhoumi yells at Private Tian, who turns around in less than a second and shouts into the forest as he goes, calling for help. Yifan doesn’t hear the guttural, infuriated cries, the fracturing of bones, Luhan’s echoing roars, doesn’t pay attention to the movements around. He ghosts his thumb over Zitao’s ripped, seeping bottom lip and places a kiss on his forehead, carefully collecting him into his arms. Zitao doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes to look at him, but he sinks when Yifan pulls him near and shields him, supports his head. He’s _warm_. 

 

 

 

 

 

The following days are engulfed in thick, impassive fog. Hangeng worries his mouth, leaning against the wooden pillar of the ward’s porch. It’s May 2, 1938, quarter to seven, and he’s smoking his twentieth cigarette. The sun has climbed up halfway from behind the mountains, casting rays of pure lavender and gold, warming his cheeks. The wounds he took from the mission seem insignificant. Whatever pain he experienced feels negligible now that he’s standing in the morning chill, fingers dry and smoke venturing up to the wall of his mouth and out of his nostrils. Perhaps he’s grateful to see the sunrise. Luhan sits on the stepping stone, hugging a loaded assault rifle to his chest, drawing incomprehensible, idle figures on the sand. He looks terrible; he hasn’t washed, hasn’t eaten much, hasn’t slept. The mud on his uniform has dried and is peeling off, flittering on the stairs. The blood on his knuckles, splattered and spilled over his chest and his face has turned into iron, weighs him down, piles him over his knees. Zhoumi is dozing off next to him, head resting on his shoulder, a concealed bottle of something stronger than water in his loose grip and the remains of a burnt out snipe between his chapped lips. The division goes about its routines, morning exercise, breakfast, mundane everyday duties, but Luhan is nailed to his post, Hangeng has grown one with the pillar and Zhoumi is reliving the seconds, minutes, hours that passed him by in the mountains, the shrieks that rang in his ears, the scene that unraveled before his eyes. He’s recalling the bruises, the broken bones, the tears that swam in the Lieutenant General’s eyes, the whispers he spoke upon Zitao’s mouth. Hangeng glimpses at him, tongue chafed and throat raspy, moves his gaze back to the yard. From the distance he hears Colonel Zhang’s constant screams, his demands, the crack of his voice, but doesn’t move an inch. Lieutenant Colonel Fa oversees and instructs the drill, and the men move as if in a dream, sluggish and hazy. Their minds are elsewhere. Luhan glares and grips his rifle tighter. The bottle from Zhoumi’s hand rattles down the stairs. 

 

 

Yifan runs fingers through his hair and rests his head in his hands, elbows piercing into his thighs. His eyes are sore, full of sand grains that scrape the backs of the sockets, the inner walls of his lids. He’s memorised the rhythm of Zitao’s breath, the faint, barely audible thuds of his heart. The sunshine shimmers in from the windows, reveals the dust that wafts in the air and the tears that have dried on Yifan’s face. He’s angry, he’s disappointed, he’s sad. Yixing hurt what he treasures the most, Yixing became an enemy, Yixing is beyond saving. He doesn’t know what drove him over the edge, but he knows he won’t climb back up — Yifan won’t give him a second chance. An infant hale of breath trembles between his lips when he rises from the stool and sits on the bed, the mattress giving in under him. Zitao doesn’t flinch. Yifan cannot put into words the grief that now resides in the chambers of his heart, still cannot finds words to match the feeling that takes over him when he leans over Zitao’s motionless, still body and strokes his washed, black hair. The door is closed, and Yifan lets down his guard. The bandages cover most of what remains of Zitao, keep intact his arms and his ribcage, wrapped tight and secure all around him. Yifan kisses his forehead and murmurs, “My dearest darling, it’s your twentieth birthday.” He closes his eyes and threads fingers in Zitao’s silky hair, lips travelling over the cuts, the stitches, the bridge of his nose. Soft, easy breaths caress his chin, and he wants a higher power to pull Zitao back, raise him up. Sunlight flushes his bronze, beautifully dark skin a shade warmer, raises blush on his badly beaten cheekbones, and Yifan dwells in sorrow, in all the moments he wanted to hold Zitao to his chest and kiss him silly, travel hands down the bend of his spine, the plush of his thick thighs and hold him up against the walls, lay him down and litter pecks all over his clavicle, enlace his slender fingers with his own and bury himself between his legs, face tucked under his chin, nose pressed to the hollow of his throat. If the war were an illusion, if it were a fragment of the nightmare Yifan wakes up to each and every night at precisely three to one am, he hopes he’d be by Zitao’s side, somewhere far where the maple trees are lush and the white waters violently gush and lash on the riverbanks. If the war were but an intimidating shadow in the corner, Yifan hopes he’d still have Zitao’s glowing body next to his beneath the cotton, still have the plane of his back facing him, for him to press his chest against, to hide in his neck. He kisses his swollen satin lips and smiles, sadly so, “I’m here. I _won’t_ leave.”

 

 

It’s May 5, 1938, half past noon, and Luhan has stolen tobacco from Private Chen’s coat’s pocket when the man happened to sit next to him, attempting to birth a chat he was no way interested in. He’s chewing on it leisurely and it tastes absolutely nauseating, but it calms his nerves down a notch, though doesn’t stop him from drumming his foot anxiously on the stepping stone he’s moulded into. Hangeng eyes him from the laundry, shaking out a freshly soaked shirt, nudging Zhoumi’s side with a grim frown, “It’s been days. He hasn’t moved at all nor has he eaten. We need to do something.” 

“He blames himself,” Zhoumi mutters, hanging his coat on the yarn clothesline to dry, though the air is turning humid. “He knows he should’ve kept an eye on him, but it would’ve been impossible. He can’t even bring himself to go up the two last stairs and see him. I think he believes he let the Lt. General down, that he let Zitao down.” Hangeng fishes a cigarette from his back pocket, bringing it to his mouth and lighting it, puffing the smoke into the wind before letting out a sigh, “To me it looks like he’s keeping guard; Lieutenant General hasn’t come out since he entered and closed the door behind his back. I think he needs to feel useful, in a way or another.” Zhoumi rubs the back of his neck; he feels sorry for Luhan. The bags under his eyes are prominent and dark, the coal on his skin has turned into oil. A shadow must be forming where he’s sitting. He hasn’t let anyone enter the ward excluding the medical team and no one has the courage to try — the way he keeps glaring at anyone who passes by is enough to keep them away. Hangeng snorts, pins a clothes peg to keep his shirt on the yarn and digs his fingers in his eye sockets, massaging the lids before grabbing the younger man by the arm, huffing, “This needs to stop.”   

 

 

Remote clamour awakens Yifan. He jolts up, glancing around, noticing a couple of medics busy by the bedside. The men greet him accordingly, bid him _‘good morning, sir’_ and continue examining the pilot’s healing process, not bothering the Lt. General any further, fully knowing that it is _not_ a good morning. Yifan lets out a puff of air, cracking his aching spine as he sits up properly, the side of his face red from the coarse linens. He can barely keep his eyes open. He has been neglecting his duties, hasn’t addressed the current issues, hasn’t been in contact with the other divisions or the Leader, hasn’t been able to sleep. Zitao hasn’t moved much at all, but he’s breathing, he sometimes squeezes Yifan’s hand, or at least Yifan wants to believe he does. Sometimes his lips part when he’s fed, sometimes his lashes fibrillate. No one questions why the Lieutenant General stays by his bedside. Yifan doesn’t care if they gossip among themselves before calling it a day. A hoarse cry breaks out in the yard, soles of boots rasp the stairs and muffled, harsh voices reach in through the ajar window. Yifan’s brows knit together and he rises from the stool, combs his hair back and places his cap on. He moves aside the curtain, looking out to the yard; Captain Han has Corporal Lu in a death grip, attempting to drag him, and Corporal Zhou is throwing his arms in the air. A few soldiers have gathered to watch. Yifan grumbles under his breath and turns on his heels, charging out of the ward. It is May 5 that Luhan acquiesces to wash and Yifan first appears in front of his men since the day he locked Colonel Zhang up and retreated behind the firmly shut doors of the ward. It is May 5 that Zitao lets out a whine.

 

 

 

 

The day is cold, oppressive. Yixing’s mouth is tinted burnt red, covered in dried blood. He yanks his arm free from a private’s hold, snarling at him before turning to look at Lieutenant General Wu, who stands before him with an unreadable expression, eyes stern and tired, his feet steady on the ground an arm’s length apart. He takes a step, a subtle limp in his movements, and grates his teeth, hisses through them, “Release me!” But Yifan says nothing, merely nods at Lieutenant Colonel Fa, who calls three men from the yard, carrying buckets of water with them. Yixing’s chest heaves, the whorl of his throat tugging rapidly. He’s captured, his arms folded behind his back, held in the grips of two privates who do not spare a second glance at him nor respond to his commands. Yixing is being stripped from his clothes and from his authority. He gnarls, attempts to squirm free, tries to kick, land a fist, but he’s disadvantaged. The buckle of his belt jingles, and he cries out, “What are you doing? Back _off!_ Do not touch me! This is _an order!_ ” But his screams fall on deaf ears, and regardless of how hard he tries to fight, he finds himself completely naked in the middle of the sand yard, wind suddenly frigid on his skin and raising the fine hairs up his arms. There’s a nearly pleased flash on Yifan’s face when Yixing stares him dead in the eye, but of course it’s gone the following second, as if it was never there to begin with. Yixing knows this is Yifan’s revenge; to humiliate him in front of the whole camp, to push him in the hands of his own men in a vulnerable state, to rip the last of his image bare so that the very last man there knows he’s but a mortal. Yifan is blinded by the whispers the vermin speaks in his ear, Yixing is sure. He’s persuaded, brainwashed and turning against his own people. He shoots a lethal look the officers’ way and stomps his foot, shouting, “This is _preposterous_ , sir! I have done _nothing_ wrong!” But Yifan only lifts his brow, dismissing his words.

“ _Do it_ ,” he says, and Lieutenant Colonel Fa gives the command. Litres and litres of ice cold water pour on Yixing, freezing the surface of his skull, pounding, and he fights a pained scream, his teeth clattering. He’s abased, disgraced and he’s sure he hears the privates mock him, laugh at his expense, thinks they’re pointing at him and outright trashing him. The corner of Yifan’s mouth perks up for a short while. He nods and walks away, refuses Yixing his audience, doesn’t answer his filth. Who is Yixing anyway? He’s not an ally of Yifan’s. He burnt that bridge a long time ago. 

 

 

The medic in the room bows deeply and excuses himself when Yifan enters the ward, soft cap in his grip, unruly strands of black hair hanging over his face. He waits for the man to leave before making his way to Zitao, sitting down on the thin mattress and reaching for his hand. Remotely the noise from the yard echoes in, but Yifan pays it no mind. He observes the reduced swelling around the younger’s eyes, the scab forming on his wounded lips, the carmine slithering over Zitao’s pupils when his lids break open the slightest, just so Yifan knows he’s looking at him. A low, rough sound of discomfort catches Yifan’s attention.

“Do you need something?” he asks, but Zitao just breathes out. Yifan knows he’s frustrated; his vision is tarnished, he can’t move, can’t speak properly. Yifan doesn’t read lips well, but he tries his hardest. In the shadows, under dark lashes, Zitao’s pupils move beneath the blood and he mouths words Yifan wants nothing more than to be able to catch. He leans closer, listens, watches closely. _‘What date is it?’_ He offers him a tender smile, brushing hair away from his face before answering, “May 12, 1938, my dearest.” Zitao presses his lips together and fumbles for Yifan’s hand, asking him to hold his a little tighter. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, something quite like a smile, and Yifan reads: _‘I lived to be twenty.’_ He lets out a fond laugh, caressing Zitao’s fingers, murmurs, “You’ll live to be thirty, darling, forty, _fifty_ , you’ll live for many years to come. You’ll live to see the end of this war.” Zitao’s lashes flicker and he draws his nails softly across the plane of Yifan’s palm. It’s a beautiful thought — to live for many years to come — but he isn’t entirely sure if he wants to, for many years will eventually leave him lonely, will turn him bitter and deranged, will give him nothing but restless nights, empty days, yearning. He knows that without this war he would’ve never known Yifan and he fears that without this war he won’t stay, but because Zitao cannot pretend or deceive the older, no matter how hard he were to try, his disquietude surfaces and dawns to Yifan, spiking woe up to his throat. He leans in, a comforting smile on his mouth, and kisses him so gently Zitao barely feels it, promises, for the one hundred time, “I won’t leave.” But it was war that brought them together, and even Yifan knows it’ll be war that’ll try to tear them apart. 

 

 

He traces knuckles over Zitao’s cheek, ghosts his lips on his skin, and Zitao whimpers. He’s not fragile, he’s not breaking, but _oh_ how weak he grows under Yifan’s touch. He wants to shed his bandages, pull him in and kiss him back, kiss him _for real_ , but he’s powerless, unable to respond, incapable of reaching out to him to embrace him, tell him he’s the only good outcome of this madness, that with him he’s scared a little less. But Yifan knows and smiles, stays close by his side, keeps him safe. 

 

 

 

 

 

A Japanese airplane was seen passing by yesterday. It fired an alert, but it never came across. Zhoumi wants to assume that it was merely on a lookout. There are pressing matters at home too, right here, ridiculous but imminent, to be dealt with. For a moment he wants to roll his eyes and laugh, but there’s nothing funny in what’s happening. The sun breaches the flimsy clouds on the sky and burns on the tip of his nose, brews sweat on his brow. The sand, the dust dances above the ground, whirls in tiny tornados, and Luhan swallows, bracing himself. He glances at Zhoumi from the corner of his eye, almost taking the first step to dash across the yard, but the older grabs his arm and shakes his head, forcing him to stay put. Colonel Zhang is a _lunatic_ — he’s screaming out his lungs, accusing Lieutenant General Wu of obscene relations and lewd behaviour, calls him out for engaging in contemptible affairs with nationalist scum, claims he’s seen him lie with the pilot in immodest ways, in ways men shouldn’t. The veins on his face pop, skip beneath the skin of his temples, strain all over his neck. He belongs in an asylum, Luhan fumes inwardly, grating his teeth. No one disgraces the Lieutenant General, and Colonel Zhang should know this by heart. Once, years before Luhan joined the Red Army, Zhang Yixing, a mere Sergeant at the time, crossed Senior Colonel Wu and lost a finger for it, or so Hangeng told him when he asked about the missing digit. What orders he refused to carry out or obey, even Hangeng is unsure of, but it ended badly for him nonetheless. So Colonel Zhang should know, yet the words he spits are of a world so low Luhan doesn’t even dare to repeat them aloud. He’s _boiling_ — he wants to stop this from happening. Zhoumi’s breath rumbles up his throat and he mutters, “ _Stay out of it_. You’ll get hurt.”

“I don’t _care_ if I get hurt! He’s disrespecting the Lt. General! He’s trying to destabilise his authority! And he’s doing it right in front of the whole division! He’s doing it _in Zitao’s face_!” Luhan exclaims, hailing at the young pilot, who sits on the porch of the Lt. General’s quarters, still in an absurd, brutally molested state, puddles of blood still swimming in his eyes, listening, watching the Colonel vent, chide and pelt, rant and rave like it’s his undisputed right to cause disruption, hassle and chaos within these walls. But Zitao doesn’t shudder, doesn’t react to Yixing’s shit, albeit fully knowing most of it is true, to an extent; there’s no relationship, there’s nothing wrong with it, he’s not a nationalist, but he does lie with Yifan in immodest ways, out of pure will, out of what he won’t go as far as to call love, perhaps out of circumstances, perhaps out of faith’s design. 

 

 

“Is this the kind of leader you’d be proud to follow? _A foul pervert!_ And this, — _this fucking jackal_ , this rat — has turned your leader against you, plotted in Kuomintang’s favour, planted lies, wrapped each and every last one of you around his little finger. He’s _playing_ you! _Can’t you see?_ He’s blinded you, deceived you, _fooled all of you!_ ” Yixing snarls, his arms twirling around him. He spins, mouth and chin wet with his own saliva, complexion flared red. The men stare at him, some of them whispering among themselves, many condemning the Colonel’s actions, shaking their heads, frowns on their faces. Luhan winces, eyes narrow. Zitao lets out a hum, a swift smile visiting his scarred lips before he pushes himself off the porch’s step, an act requiring all of his strength, but he gets up and stands straight, staring at the Colonel. There’s little that the man can say or do to paralyse him, but he’s loud and he’s insane, and Zitao has heard _enough_. Zhoumi grimaces, almost letting Luhan free from his hold, almost letting him end this before it truly begins, but he knows that this is _personal_ and they shouldn’t interfere, so he digs his nails in Luhan’s bicep and says, “Stay _the fuck out of it_.” But Luhan finds it so incredibly hard when Zitao stands so close to an unfurling Yixing.

 

 

Zitao tilts his head, black eyes examining the haste, poorly weighed movements, words, decisions. He wonders how long it took for Yixing to notice, when it was that he realised, how belligerently it hit him. It doesn’t really matter — no one takes him seriously. Yixing has no credibility left. He watches him deteriorate, barely blinking. The door behind his back opens, and Yifan walks out, a stoic expression on his face, bothered by the havoc. Arching a brow he takes in the scene, looks around to see the soldiers gathered on the yard to witness the Colonel’s last meltdown. Zitao doesn’t retreat. It baffles Yixing, but he’s onto him; Zitao is weak when he’s strong, he’s small when he’s monstrously tall, he’s a forest stream when he’s a consuming tidal wave. Zitao is a wild card; undermines Yixing by simply standing there. Yixing cannot read him, cannot predict his next move, if he’ll move at all. Zitao appears metres away but he’s up against his chest, suffocating him, penetrating through his flesh, clenching his windpipe, feeling up his palate, gnawing it with his nails. He sees him double, a lookalike, _a counterfeit_ , shifting left and right, charging from both fronts and from the middle. He groans, screams out, “Stop it! _Stop_ —“  Suddenly Zitao is an inch from him, grinning, breathing against his mouth, eyes of tar bleeding out from the corners, flicking his tongue.

“ _I_ won’t break _for you_ ,” he whispers, stunning Yixing to his core. “But _you’ll_ break _for me_.” Not a second later Zitao takes a hold of the cane in Yixing’s grip and twists it from his fist, swinging it in the air and driving it into the backs of his knees, knocking him off and onto the ground. Luhan is holding his breath. Yixing shrieks, lands flat on his back, the vertebras of his spine cracking. Zitao spins the cane in his hand, recalling all those times it tore open his muscles and wavered his balance. It’s an extension of Yixing’s now crumbled reign, a weapon of domination and vile oppression, a symbol of terror. 

“Give it back, _faggot!_ ” Yixing orders, but it has no impact. Yifan’s breath runs torching hot — he’s a second away from drawing out his pistol — but Zitao remains unaffected by the Colonel’s words, so Yifan stays back. He cannot afford to verify everything the division has heard, everything they so far believe to be nothing but a madman’s delusions. He has the prestige to put an end to this, yet he finds himself caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea; if he so much as raises a hand, the men might consider Yixing’s words noteworthy, deem them truthful after all. 

 

 

Yixing scrambles, stumbles up from the ground, spits at his feet. His shoulders are hunched and vast, his entire figure ominous, threatening everything Zitao is, has been or will be, but Yixing is just what he seems to be; a bolt of lightning, the tree in the eye of the storm, foolish enough to defy the thunder and the wind, an erupting volcano. He doesn’t know how to bend. The corner of Zitao’s mouth rises into an askew smirk as he backs away, step after step, and finally comes up to the first stone paved stair of the Lieutenant General’s porch, never letting Yixing break the eye contact he’s been holding. Yifan’s fingers tap nervously the grip of his pistol. Zitao rotates the cane once, twice, watching as Yixing takes a step in his way with a warning flame in his look, and smashes the cane into the marble pillar of the building with a force so great it splinters and bursts in half. Yixing freezes in place, eyes wide, following each fracture of wood as they slowly fall. The silence that fills the camp is so thick Luhan could cut it with a knife. Zhoumi pushes himself off the bench he’s been sitting on, cautiously rising on his feet. Everyone is holding their breath, staring at the Colonel, staring at Zitao, who throws the end of the cane Yixing’s way, chest heaving. Something is bound to happen, and Yifan wants to run down the few stairs, but he’s hammered to his post in shock. _Anything_ could happen.

 

 

And when it does, it all happens at once; Yixing groans out and charges at Zitao, Luhan dashes across the yard with Zhoumi racing not far behind and Yifan draws out his gun. He fires it in the air, stunning Yixing midway, and roars, “ _Enough!_ Enough of this!” The soldiers murmur, point at the Colonel, eye Zitao and the Lieutenant General curiously, warily, unsure of what’s going on, whether it is really all laid before them or all of it has a hidden, deeper meaning that they’re not aware of. Perhaps Colonel Zhang is a lost cause, perhaps he’s paranoid, perhaps he’s imagining it all, conjuring it up from the depths of his disoriented mind, but perhaps he’s completely _sane_. No one knows. 

“Zitao, _up!_ ” Yifan calls, voice low and icy, but in Zitao’s ears nothing but gentle. He climbs up the stairs, slowly, and goes to stand behind the Lt. General’s back, emotionless, unreadable, keeping his eyes fixed on Yixing, who flounders in Luhan steel hard hold.

“You’ve gone too far! Let me _go!_ ” the Colonel chuffs, all steam and teeth, but none of it gets to Zitao past Yifan’s towering figure that stands before him cold-blooded and adamant. Zhoumi twists Yixing’s other arm behind his back in Luhan’s aid, looking up at the Lt. General, asking, “Orders, sir?” Yifan shakes his head and observes the broken cane, lifts his gaze to meet Yixing’s infuriated, disbelieving one, letting out a long sigh. He cannot have Yixing walking around the barracks — he’ll end up causing harm to the whole division and himself. He cannot bring himself to sentence him to death either, though it’d probably be justified and fair after all the damage he’s done, for the war is a death sentence itself. It has already eaten away most of the man. Regardless, Yixing has to be punished. Yifan runs his tongue on the wall of his cheek and evaluates his choices before taking a step down, staring at Yixing, who stops trying to yank himself from the corporals’ arms.

“Zhang Yixing, I hereby remove your title and your rank as the Colonel and demote you to a private.” 

 

 

Zitao smiles, — Yixing _breaks_.    

 

 

 

 

The rice pastes to the walls of the ceramic bowl, to the chopsticks. Luhan munches on his share languidly, summer breeze balmy in his nape. For the first time in a very, _very_ long while, he’s at rest. Zhoumi is cursing at Captain Han, who’s beating him for the nth time in mahjong, in the far distance over a cup of tea and cigarettes. It’s all so trivial, passing, but Luhan finds comfort in the moment. Zitao sits next to him, difficultly holding chopsticks in his hand, poking at the rice in his own bowl. He’s glancing over his shoulder, he’s boring his eyes through the gravel. There’s a shift in his movements, yet he’s a statue of stone. Luhan almost laughs under his breath; he’ll never figure him out. Maybe no one ever will, but for the time being, he’ll still want to be his friend. He bumps softly against his good arm, a kind smile on his mouth and says, “You’re really something, aren’t you?” Zitao glances at him with a crooked simper. Luhan doesn’t believe anything he says yet he trusts everything he says to be true. He can’t make up his mind, but perhaps he won’t have to. 

“ _Something_ , huh?” Zitao hums, tongue poking the row of his teeth, darting swiftly on his bottom lip. Luhan rolls his eyes, hearing mockery in the younger’s voice, but then again, what lies between everything and nothing? So he laughs, stuffing rice from his bowl into Zitao’s mouth, “Something, my friend. You’re _something_.” And Corporal Lu finds that he’s fond of Huang Zitao, the pilot who’ll never fly again, the soldier who refused to yield, the man who softens Lieutenant General Wu’s heart. He finds that maybe, perhaps, he won’t say a thing about it, that perhaps it is _something_ , something he cannot quite grasp, cannot hold, cannot prevent from setting forest fires, and perhaps something that simply belongs in the time being, for the time being. He won’t break it, won’t tease Zitao about the blush that blooms on his cheeks when Yifan passes them by and offers him a genuine smile, his steps slowing down, and Luhan won’t ask a thing when a trembling sigh leaves Zitao’s mouth.          

 

 

 

_JUNE_

 

 

A thin ray of wafting moonlight casts in through the closed curtains, behind them the whole window swimming in pale radiance, drawing out the panes. On the walls, in the ceiling dances the mellow, melted glow of the melancholically burning paraffin lamp, its flame pulsing to the balmy drift of silent wind that sneaks in from beneath the shut door, from the open office window down the hall. Yifan inhales, his head tucked deep in the pillow, face buried in Zitao’s neck. The night is sweltering, but he’s pushed tight against Zitao’s back, knees locked behind his, the planes of his feet pressing against his heels and he’s blazing, running a fever so close to him. The dim light paints Zitao’s dark skin under sunshine gold and glimmer, and Yifan traces his fingertips over the muscle of his shoulder, down his arm. The course of his breath is steady and calm. As Yifan listens to him, the sound of his peaceful sleep, he feels his lungs fill and empty by his side, against his chest, how the bones seem to give in and stretch with every inhale he takes so placidly, as if he too is a hush of air. The bones of his ankles against his, Zitao’s luscious buttocks nestled by his hips, Yifan’s lips wandering across his shoulder blade, he kisses his skin, caresses a featherlight path down Zitao’s oblique, over his still healing bruises, lays his palm on the subtle softness of his lower belly, languidly brushing his touch into the lean muscles beneath, through the fine hairs trailing down from his navel. He knows he’s fallen too deep, but then Zitao shifts into him, further into his chest and breathes into the pillow, fumbling for his hand and enlacing their fingers, bringing it up to his chest, and Yifan is engulfed by such strong infatuation and emotion that quite frankly, he stops caring and floundering, lets the current take him. He kisses the side of Zitao’s neck, nose nuzzling behind his ear, wants to whisper words he shouldn’t; words of devotion and tenderness, words that wait in the hours of cold, in time’s hold. There are many things Zitao should know — how Yifan feels when they lie side by side like this,  how overwhelming are the sparks, the smouldering embers in the chambers of his heart and how utterly smelt he is in his arms, a pool of molten silver, a thawed bank of snow. He should know that Yifan is a foolish, thoughtless wave of spellbound ardency and know that he’ll want to drown one day, someday, in his embrace and surrounded by the sound of washing waters, leave knowing he’ll still be in his arms when he draws his last breath, believing he’ll follow him to the other side, — hoping he’s not afraid of death.

 

 

The light cascades down Zitao’s clavicle. An airy sigh leaves his mouth and he tilts his head, Yifan’s nose burrowing in his cheek. The curtains flutter leniently in the draft. Yifan closes his eyes and memorises the moment, everything about it — the subtle sweat that sticks their bodies together, the heat that lingers between them and in Zitao's nape, how the air walks fairly atop the side of Zitao’s thigh and how his mouth is ever so slightly agape, allowing out easy breaths, lips satiny smooth. Listening, smelling each scent, Yifan takes in the serenity of it, the way Zitao’s bird’s scapulas curve delicately towards the ceiling and puncture gently into his chest when he settles from shifting, how the skin over his abdomen is on mild goosebumps and the shadows set about carving out each muscle. Yifan kisses him a little more, a little longer, from the hollow of his cheek to the side of his nose, to the corner of his mouth. Zitao leans into it subconsciously, relies on the belief that he’s safe and it’s all good, coalescing into one with Yifan’s body with an inaudible whine. It’s three to one am, June 7, 1938, and Yifan is awake, but he hasn’t dreamt a nightmare. He hasn’t dreamt anything at all. Zitao’s lips move slowly, subtly if at all with his, but Yifan doesn’t want to wake him up, so he leaves his mouth and watches his weary head slowly turn, his cheek fall back into the pillow, how the sinews on his neck stretch, cutting the pooling oil light. Yifan retreats, tucks himself back in the slumbering heat of Zitao’s neck and breathes him in, holds his hand a bit firmer. Zitao is beautiful like this; naked and dreamy, conforming into Yifan’s small movements, forgetful of the world and mindful of the way Yifan caresses his nape, the back of his hand with his thumb.

 

 

A distant static, a low noise catches his attention and he stills, eyes breaking open as he listens, wary and pulling Zitao closer. The next moment the windows shatter and wash in, spitting glass on the floor. Yifan covers Zitao, who jolts awake, barely having the time to draw in a breath before the ground outside further shakes and fractures into pieces, the sand blows up in the air and the buildings begin to fall apart. Acting solely on his instincts he hides in Yifan’s body, but Yifan is pulling him out of the bed, throat tight and shoving his clothes in his hands, helping him into his uniform, muttering _‘hurry, darling’_ and cursing as he tries to yank him forward, out of the room. Zitao’s chest stings. He follows him, Yifan’s arm around his shoulders. The alarm rings in the camp, but it sounds late; the bombs are falling, ramming through the roofs and the walls, toppling them down into fragments of wires and stone. Fire blares up in enormous flames, and Zitao sees red sparks everywhere, licking the wooden pillars, the stables, the barracks. He hears screams, hears rumbling voices pierce through the destruction, giving empty commands that no one listens in their terror. 

“ _Airstrike!_ Everyone into the forest!” Captain Han yells through the crashing, bursting bricks and marble, his whole body shaking as he moves on to lift a collapsed pole, under which a private is hysterically begging for help, crying for his mother, his face wet with tears. Zitao stares, his arm wrapping around Yifan’s waist, Yifan’s own a shield on his shoulder. His legs feel heavy, as if someone were dragging them down through the solid bedrock. He turns his head, looks around and looks for Luhan, his friend, for Corporal Zhou, for anyone he’s shared more than two words with, finding none of them. Yifan hastens his pace, keeping an eye on the sky while calling orders to the soldiers as they pour out of the barracks, straight from their beds, many barely in their undergarments. 

“Move it! To the forest!” Lieutenant Corporal Fa shouts from the distance. It’s all a terrible, surreal blur in Zitao’s eyes, _a bloodbath_ , a spoiling, spewing recreation of the Eighteenth Hell on Earth. Yifan’s breath is thick and hitching in his throat when he glimpses at him, yelling, “We need to run faster! Can you do that for me? _Tao?_ ” The wave of the bomb that explodes on the other side of the camp nearly pushes them off their feet, urging Yifan to pull Zitao forward and out of the gates faster, but Zitao is lagging and looking back, calling for Luhan. 

“We _have_ to go!” Yifan growls, his grip of Zitao’s wrist turning painful. The night is black and red, and the shadows suck everything in. The grass is drying, wilting; the sand is parching; the mist that slithered on the ground past midnight evaporating in the scorching air. Zitao bites his teeth together, tears brimming in his eyes, — he lets Yifan take him away. It isn’t _fair_. 

 

 

Luhan scrambles out of the smashed wall where there used to be a door — now a tipping mountain of clay. Coughing, wiping spit on the back of his hand he scans the area, trying to focus his disoriented, quivering vision. It’s impossible to regain balance, and he stumbles to his knees on the ground, everything around him but a huge, uncertain blowup of limbs, pillars and wooden chips. He blinks, pulling himself towards what he hopes to be an escape route out of the deathtrap, calling, “ _Zhoumi!_ Where are you? Captain Han! _Captain Han!_ ” 

“Luhan? _Luhan!_ We’re here! I’ll help you, _wait!_ ” Luhan hears Hangeng’s cracking low voice through the booming havoc. Narrowing his eyes he attempts to peel himself off the dust mount, scarring himself on the harsh edges of shattered stone. Air runs hot and suffocating in his throat, torching its way up. He pants it out, gathers it in. His heart beats unrelentingly hard in his chest and all he sees is fire; burning down the buildings, erupting from the earth, gnawing the fabric of Hangeng’s uniform when he leaps over to him, his face smudged and his arms spluttered in blood, char and sand. Luhan takes his hand when he offers it, pulls himself up, asks, “Zhoumi?”

“He’s right there! Let’s get the _fuck_ out of here!” Hangeng shouts, waving his arm, and Luhan takes a look down to the ground, where Zhoumi lies with a nasty grimace on his mouth, his legs badly injured, glass sticking out of his flesh. He tumbles towards him in Hangeng’s wake and takes a hold of his arm, beginning to drag him.

“Everything’s gonna be all right! I _won’t_ leave you behind!” Luhan assures, and Zhoumi swallows, groaning as the dry soil beneath him scrapes through his uniform. Hangeng runs ahead, helping whoever he finds struggling to get on their feet, and Luhan is biting back a cry at the sight of Zhoumi wailing for him to help him, save him, but there is only little Luhan can do and he’s giving it everything, putting all of his strength in trying to get him away. “I won’t leave you here!” Hangeng spins around just in time to see a bomb crash and explode, its wave shoving him into the nearest standing wall, pinning Luhan and his weak legs to the seething ground. The heat scorches skin, hair, eyes out of their sockets, melts teeth, and Hangeng is blind and deaf for a while, croaking out Luhan’s name time after time as he picks himself up on a suicide mission to find him. The flames are too bright and the shadows too light. His chest sinks to his spine, a heavy weight pressing it down, plunging his lungs empty before they fill with smoke. Luhan’s knees are wobbly, the right side of his face burnt from the hairline to his neck, the skin of his arms bristling under his flayed uniform. 

“ _Luhan!_ I’m coming!” Hangeng wheezes, sweat trickling down from his brow as he rampages his way across the metres that separate them, wraps his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and pries him off the ground, shakes him and pats his good cheek, keeping him up. Luhan spits at his feet and takes a messy step, his hand holding Zhoumi’s own tight, and he mumbles, “C’mon, Zhoumi! _Just a little while longer!_ ” 

 

 

But the weight he’s dragging feels awfully light. His eyes grow wide and he turns around, breaking into a shredded cry. Zhoumi lies limp on the ground in a pool of blood, _torn in half_ , his hand in Luhan’s flaccid. 

“ _No!_ ” Luhan screams, staring at the ripped flesh and the gushed guts, the broken ridges of Zhoumi’s ribs. Tears stream down his face and he’s about to collapse on his knees next to him, to hold him, but Hangeng pulls him back and Zhoumi’s hand slips from his grip. 

“We have to leave! He’s _dead!_ ” Captain Han hisses, a string of wire straining around his throat as he looks at his lost friend. He pushes his grief down and yanks Luhan away, forcing him out. He has no other choice than to leave Zhoumi behind — it’s war, and war reaps what it sows. The only thing Hangeng can do is to save those who still have a chance and he’s not going to give up. Luhan tears away his stare and groans, the pain overtaking every last thought in him, but he pushes forward and makes it out of the burning camp, his torched skin wet and salty, a knot in his throat, birthing a vortex of weeps. Hangeng bites his lip and forgets to breathe. 

“Don’t look back.”  

 

 

 

 

The dusk of the forest swallows everyone whole. Zitao sits between Yifan’s thighs, feeling as small as he seems, buried and tucked in the Lt. General’s chest in the black void where nothing moves but everything constantly shifts. Lids closed, arms folded, knees to his chin he nuzzles his nose under Yifan’s jaw, listening to the circling heavy bombers as they scout the sky above, and Zitao cannot believe he knows how they feel — mighty, undefeated, godlike. But those men are the enemy, a foreign invader, a threat, not their kinsmen, and Zitao knows they are remorseless, guiltless and foul. To them their camp is a beehive, but bees, when bothered and menaced with, sting. Zitao has no doubt that the Japanese will lose this war, one way or another. China is too great a power for them to overtake. He kisses Yifan’s jaw and breathes out, “Are you afraid?”

“To the core,” Yifan whispers in his hair, his arms around Zitao’s body tightening their hold. There are many things Yifan fears; to die when he’s quite not ready, to die knowing Zitao will keep on living, to die by someone else’s hand and will. Death itself doesn’t frighten him in the least — it’s only the end. Yifan does often wonder what awaits in the end, but he’s stopped asking questions. He’ll find out eventually. Death is gentle and death is kind. Yifan knows it’ll come for him ultimately. “Are you?” Zitao almost says he is, beyond belief, but he settles deeper in his embrace instead and asks Yifan to hold him firmer, to never let him go, knowing Yifan won’t. The buzz of the planes is hollow and low, engulfs the silence that revolves in the forest. The flames that suck in their camp in the far distance blaze on the trunks of the trees, incising the bark, climbing up the notches. Heavy breaths puff into the night, and Zitao hears the men lament into the darkness, in hopes of someone hearing them, arriving for them, yet wishing their whines were silent and would vanish before reaching the closest man nearby. They’re scared and alone, injured, desperate, they want to crawl out of their skin and disappear, escape, but there’s no way to run, even if their legs would carry them on. 

“I’m here for you,” Yifan murmurs, his hand soothing on Zitao’s back, underneath the coat and the thin shirt. He kisses his forehead and glances around, drawing slow circles across the hills of Zitao’s spine, and Zitao feels warm. 

 

 

 

 

Dry wind rustles in the corners of the tents. Captain Han sits by the fire with a solemn frown on his face, boiling water. Yixing stares at the flames with an unnerving emptiness in his eyes, twirling a stick between his fingers. Luhan is leaning on his knees, the skin of his face badly malformed and stretched over his flesh, reddish and raw. 

“Where’s Lt. General Wu?” Yixing asks, but Luhan shoots him an icy look. Where the Lieutenant General is doesn’t matter. Where Zitao is doesn’t matter. What matters is that their division has suffered a major loss, has been reduced in less than half in numbers and no one knows where to go, what to do, who to talk to. Zhoumi is _gone_ , the horses are gone, the guns are gone. It’s a chaos among their men and no one seems to care or do anything about it. When Luhan found Zitao right where he thought he’d find him, from Yifan’s arms, the younger threw his arms around him and hugged him, and for a while Luhan was sure he saw Zitao clearer than he’d ever seen, that he wasn’t down underground and up above the trees at once but right there, telling him how worried he was, how grateful he was that he’s all right. But Luhan isn’t all right — he’s a _ruin_. He promised to save his friend but _couldn’t_. It’s breaking him, slowly and surely, turning him into nothing more than a bag of meat. Hangeng fears for him.

“It’s none of your concern, _Private_ Zhang,” Captain Han mutters as he pours some hot water into the bucket, mixing it with cold before soaking a cloth in it. He sits on the fallen pine tree next to Luhan and presses the cloth on his face, hoping to evoke a response from him, a hiss, a whine, _anything_ , but Luhan keeps staring at the moss beneath his feet, letting the older tend to his injuries. Hangeng _frets_ for him. Yixing throws the stick behind his back and listens to the muffled noises that the forest seems to trap within its borders. It’s evening, three days after the bombing, and Yixing knows just where the Lieutenant General is.

 

 

 

 

Yifan’s breath is soft over Zitao’s rib cage. The morning is early, the birds slumber in the pastel lights of the sun, the sky is a shade of rose and lavender. Zitao’s fingers chord in Yifan’s black hair, curling strands over knuckles, leisurely and half asleep. Summer air pools above and around, balmy gentle on Zitao’s skin. The moss outside is of crystal dew and in Yifan’s eyes there’s a tender auburn hue. He kisses the bruises, the scars, travels feathery fingertips over the hipbones, the subtle dale where his loins join the muscles of his thighs. It’s something sacred and pure he has with Zitao, something nameless, otherworldly, something so divine he quite fears he’ll break it, but for the time being it’ll be all right. He takes Zitao’s hand in his, kisses his fingers, his wrist, a trail up his inner arm, up the blue of the veins, kisses the angle of his shoulder and the curve of his collar, the sinews of his neck and the whorl of his throat, kisses the cut of his jaw, the shell of his ear and the smooth arch of his lips. Zitao hums, leans into his body and murmurs, “What are you doing?” Yifan smiles against his mouth, forehead resting on his, knee pushed deep between the heat of his thighs. _‘Kissing you’_ he almost answers, but decides otherwise. Instead he moves his lips languidly on Zitao’s until he responds and meets his tongue, — a drowsy whimper caught in the middle. Zitao’s movements are dreamy, still somnolent and hazy, but an indulgent simper is rising on his mouth and his lashes are fluttering. A breeze wafts in past the entrance of the tent, tiptoeing on Yifan’s back, climbing up his nape. He brushes locks of hair from Zitao’s face behind his ear, his palm comfortable on his cheek, thumb gently caressing a path over his lid, over the arc of his brow. Zitao curls his tongue lazily around his before releasing him, kisses the moist of his bottom lip, whispers, “Do you want to _fly_ , Yifan?” 

 

 

There’s a break in Yifan’s breath. Zitao’s skin glows pressed against his, tempting, and Yifan meets his ample gaze in the dim of the morning, hungry for him, — a starving man. It’ll all come to an end, but if the end doesn’t come for him today, he’ll gladly wait. Zitao looks at him, lashes dark and pupils blown, lips pinched red and full. Yifan is beginning to realise he’ll never see the world from up above the clouds, but he’s seen _his_ world crumble to the ground a riverbank away, knees in mud, and he knows what flying feels like. Flying, just _flying_ , is the freest he’s ever been. It’s a moment like this, a moment out of space and of time when Yifan just is, when Zitao leans in to kiss him and his kisses are everlasting, infinite, when there are lashing, furious white waters in his charcoal eyes and Yifan is willing to sink. Zitao takes him to Heaven, even if it doesn’t exist, pulls him down through rapids and rocks. Yifan only ever follows. 

“Yes,” he mouths, his voice silent and words spoken gently on Zitao’s lips. He’s not begging, but he’s yearning, longing for his touch and his smouldering warmth, for the peace being so close to him brings. Yifan needs peace, for Zitao to take him high and away in solitude when no one else hears. 

 

 

Zitao smiles, genuinely so, stroking the back of Yifan’s neck, sliding his leg up his side. The steady beat of Yifan’s heart drums against his chest, comforting and reliable. There are many things Zitao should say, but he chooses not to. Yifan’s arm wraps around him, tucking him nearer until they’re toe to toe, knee to knee and there’s no air between. The moss beneath the thin blankets, their shed clothes is damp and gives in under the bend of Zitao’s back when Yifan leans in with a tremble to kiss him, mouth moist and thirsting for collision. Zitao laughs at him, on his tongue when he cages it between his teeth and arches a brow at him, a playful gleam in his eyes before taking him in, mapping out the walls of his mouth, tasting the want in the back of his teeth. Running his fingertips down the length of Yifan’s spine, he takes in the scent of his skin, how it feels when the tickle of his touch leaves him shivering and what the uncertainty of a tomorrow looks like in his eyes when he breaks for air, gazing down at him with such ache Zitao fears it might tear him apart. So he embraces him, kisses the dip under his bottom lip where it meets his chin and takes his fingers back up and through his hair, promises, “I’m here. I won’t leave you.” And Yifan trusts that he won’t. There are many questions he should have asked Zitao when he still cared about the answers, but as of now, he cannot remember a single one. He doesn’t care where he came from, what he’s done, how he’s doing it, — deceiving, twisting — how he’s in front but behind your back, smiling but holding a knife to your lung, how he’s made his way through to his heart. Yifan doesn’t mind, and perhaps this too is Zitao’s doing; perhaps he’s whispering spells in his ear, coaxing the centre of his soul with the soft syllables he speaks upon his tongue, twirling him around his little finger with the sway of his hips. Yifan doesn’t know, but he knows Zitao’s by his side to stay, come what may. 

 

 

“Hold me tighter,” Zitao pleads, hooks his leg behind the small of Yifan’s back and tucks him between his thighs, the tips of his fingers brushing, pressing to his scalp. There’s hesitance in Yifan’s eyes when he glimpses at the healing wounds all over the younger’s body, the memories of his abuse still fresh in his mind, but Zitao nudges him, bites gently into the flesh of his lip and smiles encouragingly, leniently, wanting to say it’s all right and he won’t break. Yifan’s hipbones sink into the softness of his inner thighs, puncturing snugly into the lean muscles, and Zitao has him locked in his arms, right where he’s supposed to be before the rise of dawn a day once in June 1938, amidst a war. And so Yifan holds him as tight as he needs him to, smothers him in heat and doesn’t ask a thing. He doesn’t believe in dreams nor promises larger than life, but he believes in every beyond mad word that Zitao utters into their kisses, believes in whatever this is and in the overwhelming enchantment he’s fallen under so willingly. He’s just a man, this is just war and this is just warmth. Maybe there’s nothing more to it, but Zitao’s eyes have him believing otherwise — there’s everything to it, and Zitao isn’t just a man, this is greater than war and this is more than warmth. He caresses Zitao’s side, brings his feverish touch across his abdomen down between their bodies. Zitao suckles on his lip, a content, crooked simper tugging the corner of his mouth when Yifan’s takes him into his palm, wraps his long fingers around his length. A light puff of air raises gauzy blush on his chest. Yifan’s nose presses into his cheek and Zitao can taste the lust in his breath. The pace of his strokes is building knots in his belly, straining his muscles, making him lightheaded and leaving him flowy. Yifan is able to move something holy within him, whatever it is, by simply looking at him with those hooded, dark eyes of his. His nails dig affectionately into his shoulder. The coat beneath his bare back smells like Yifan; of the forest and gunpowder, of summer rain, pine tree needles and seed. 

 

 

The amber of the sun soaks in shyly from behind Yifan’s shoulders, getting caught in his sharp features and in Zitao’s black eyes as they begin to flitter shut. Yifan’s forefinger traces the line of his mouth, dipping in. Zitao moans softly and sucks it, glimpsing at the older before taking in another, curling his tongue between, along and over them until they’re dripping wet and Yifan draws them out, kissing the bone of his jaw. He nuzzles into his chest and lets go of his cock, guiding Zitao’s own hand down before sliding his arm under the arch of his spine, lifting him up just the slightest, just so his legs wrap comfortably around his back. Zitao flicks his tongue, trailing his fingertips across the plane of Yifan’s jutted out shoulder blade, glancing down before looking at him with a funny smile, one that evokes a light, easy breath from Yifan’s lungs.

“Are you afraid, dear?” he asks, and Yifan lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head, eyes sparkling. Zitao’s smile widens, all pearly teeth and gums when Yifan leans his forehead on his, lashes chording through his, confesses, “ _Never_ with you, darling.” Zitao’s chest rises to the tide of Yifan’s when it falls, and he’s certain he no longer cares for the ruins of Tiananmen’s halls or the shattered temple walls. It was war that brought them together once in 1938, and it’ll be war that’ll bind them in the end. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Yifan pushes in his fingers, pressing them against his flesh, stretching them wide, curling them in deep until Zitao mewls and gasps for air, slowly moving his hips. His erection pulses in his fist, but Zitao doesn’t touch himself further, just runs his thumb over the raw, flushed head and nibbles Yifan’s lower lip, inhaling his scent, veiling himself in it. Yifan’s fingers circle and scissor carefully, causing his breaths to come out in longing whines, his thighs to strain apart until his muscles grow sore. 

“Whenever you feel ready,” Yifan hums, arm secure around the small of Zitao’s back, supporting and keeping him near. Summer breeze seeps in through the cracks of the tent, sweeping in Yifan’s nape. He keeps Zitao’s softly flaming gaze, rocking himself into his groin. It’s not quite ecstasy that blurs his mind but rather a cotton cloud of rapture that envelopes him, soothes and blankets him when Zitao whimpers beneath him, satiny lips parted and keen eyes slowly burning up. Yifan prods him, smiling at how the skin over his abdomen tightens and he heaves, pulling him down, knee pressed to his vertebras.

 

 

Zitao traces hot fingertips down Yifan’s stomach, rakes through the hairs below his navel and takes his throbbing erection into his hand, brushing his pinky over the plump veins before engaging him into a pacific, unhurried kiss. There are many things Zitao should tell Yifan, but he thinks that deep down he knows it all. He should tell him he knows exactly what will happen, when it’ll happen, how Yifan will look like when he draws his last breath and black current whisks in his hair, how the sound of his heart will wash away into the roar. He should tell him he adores him, earnestly so, that he’ll go wherever he’s going, be it the far North or the next world. But he chooses not to say any of this, because he’s safe and he’s somewhere close to home, because Yifan breathes him in and turns him into foam. He pecks the bow of Yifan’s mouth and nods, cuddling into his chest when he slips out his fingers and aligns himself, hand kneading into the flesh of his buttocks, the tip of his cock pressing against his clenching entrance. Zitao tugs at his lip with his teeth, short nails gently gnawing his body, urging him on to fill him, to make him feel a little less scattered, a little more complete. Yifan chuckles at him, his arm wrapping around his shoulders while the other remains under the bend of his back, “A hundred years of _impatience_ , my dearest.”

“A hundred years of _loneliness_ ,” Zitao says. For a while sorrow and hurt swim in his frothy eyes and Yifan’s throat tightens, but he swallows it down and rubs his nose against the younger’s own, murmurs, “I should’ve _known_ it was you all along.” Zitao almost tells him it’s all right, but doesn’t. It doesn’t matter anymore. He kisses it all away and shivers when Yifan thrusts into him, his arms strong around him. 

 

 

The dim rays of the sun hit Yifan’s skin, building shadows around his muscles, the upper thighs and glutes. There are many things Yifan should be doing, but he’s stopped caring, so he buries himself in Zitao’s warmth and the scent of his neck, rocking into him in a placid, needy pace, thrusting in deep before sliding halfway out, and Zitao smiles by his ear, nose in his hair, inhaling the forest and the lead. He lets his lids fall shut and complies to the rhythm, bending, the arch of his back once in a while lifting off the ground as he listens to the dark, velvety breaths that leave Yifan’s throat. It’s almost lulling, the softness of hot air in his neck, raising mist on his skin. It’s safe and it’s ever-old, an explosion, an ancient ritual collision, and Zitao’s lips move by Yifan’s ear, humming, reminiscing, bringing tears in his burning auburn eyes. Perhaps they’re a mistake made in the moment, perhaps they’re a moment born from a mistake, or perhaps they’re something in between. All Yifan knows is Zitao’s half of him, whether they’ll sink or swim. He sucks on his neck, pulling the veins, the sinews, drawing out a moan from him, followed by a light, soaring laugh and a peck on his cheek. It’s soft and smooth, it’s comforting, idle and soothing, something Yifan realises he missed once when the days were strictly structured and hallow, the sheets cold and the cage of his ribs hollow. He realises that this, whatever this is, has lasted eternities and will live on for lifetimes, that wherever he’ll be, he’ll run into him in war, in peace and in all the colours of the raging mountain rivers, through marble walls and oil painted halls. Zitao’s hand comes up on his cheek, cupping his face, tilting him to meet his eyes. With his thumb he wipes away the salt brimming in Yifan’s eyes and tucks his arm under his head, for him to rest on.

“I’ve never been with anyone,” Yifan whispers quietly by the side of Zitao’s mouth, “in the way I’ve been with you.” Zitao lets out a sigh, brushes his knuckles over his temple and places a chaste kiss on his lips, knowing he’s true.  

 

 

The air is moist and Zitao’s moans choke on it, swirl and dive in it. Yifan nibbles the lobe of his ear and pulls out, rolling the younger to his side before sliding back in, hipbones puncturing gently into the lush flesh of his rear. Zitao takes his hand and tugs at it, bringing it to his chest. His legs are heavy and his head light. Yifan entwines their fingers, his face hid in his neck, the snap of his hips a tad faster now, precise, and Zitao’s muscles begin to tighten. Lips parted, lids shut, Yifan’s legs tangled with his, he leans back into his body and groans, head tilting back. Yifan laughs in his nape, fingertips dancing on his chest, slowly guiding their hands down Zitao’s stomach, leaving behind a trail of sweat and shivers. Zitao mewls, swaying to his thrusts with a tender smirk on his puffy mouth, “Flying, darling?” Yifan bites the skin behind his ear, flooding gaze wandering on the outline of his face, picturing the smile on his feline lips, and hums, “Close to the sun.” The tips of his fingers trace around Zitao’s navel, the side of his palm brushing the wet head of his erection, causing Zitao’s smile to falter and turn into a molten moan.

“Touch me, please,” he pleads, pushing firmer into Yifan’s lap, skin a luscious shade of blush, and Yifan nuzzles his nose behind the cut of his jaw, pressing Zitao’s palm on the hot flesh, locking his fingers over his, simultaneously picking up his thrusts. Zitao is leaking on their knuckles and on the clothes beneath them, and Yifan can feel the weight of his inner thighs, the pit of his stomach. The small of Zitao’s back is damp, glowing. He clenches messily around Yifan’s full, hard length, crying silently into his own shoulder, trying to muffle out his moans, but Yifan nudges his cheek, asking him to turn and weep on his tongue instead. Zitao’s teeth dig into his bottom lip. Yifan’s palm on the back of his is large and secure, and Zitao wants to believe the way his hips hug him is made by design, that they are two pieces of a puzzle and not a wayward chance of luck, that there’s something larger than life that meant them together, that maybe something keeps them stuck. He quivers when Yifan’s grip grows tighter, his cock pulsating against his own palm, Yifan’s rubbing his blind spot repeatedly, overstimulating his prostate, and Zitao feels his seed seep down his skin each time Yifan pulls out a little. He kisses him hard, tongue lapping, tangling with his. Yifan’s lashes flutter shut and he grabs his waist, fingers burrowing into his oblique. Zitao strokes himself faster, moaning into their kisses, his senses blurring out. The knot in his belly is untying, bursting, and Yifan groans at how wildly he convulses around him, tight, hot and wet. He sucks on the plush of his lower lip, chest heaving, and breathes, “Come for me. I want to see you come.” A low laugh tickles his skin. Zitao opens his eyes, his pupils wide, and nestles his nose in the hollow of Yifan’s cheek, keeping his gaze fixed on the way his nails dig into him, how the veins of his forearm skip.

 

 

Yifan’s pupils are blown and his mouth bitten red. Zitao comes in white ropes, breath hot on Yifan’s jaw, toes digging to the insteps of the older’s feet. He jerks himself through his orgasm with a content smile on his lips, Yifan’s nails burrowed into his hips. The tendons of Yifan’s throat tense, swallowing shadows and breaths, his body fluttering softly to each constricting spasm of Zitao’s body, his pants coming out shorter. 

“Kiss me,” Zitao murmurs, hand slick around his swollen cock, drawing out remains of cum. His back presses further into Yifan’s chest and stomach, beginning to build a fortress in the radiating heat. The bridge of Yifan’s nose bumps into his, a blissful simper on his mouth when he leans in, brows furrowing, lids presses shut. There’s yearning on his tongue, crave caving in the back of his throat. Sweat pearls on his temples. He kisses Zitao a little deeper, saliva daubing their lips, and Zitao hums into it when Yifan comes pouring with a low groan, his hold of his hips tightening before slowly loosening. His arm wraps around Zitao’s stomach, pulling him so close he can feel the blood rushing through his body. Yifan rocks himself into him lazily, riding it out, his kisses turning gentle now, adoring, treasuring, and Zitao takes his hand in his to hold, adapting to the long, leisurely thrusts. Semen drips out of his hole, trailing down his cheeks, smearing between his inner thighs and on Yifan’s groin, but he’s cosy right where he is, wet and warm in the shelter of Yifan’s arm.

“I never dreamed I’d find you,” he mumbles, words small and hushed, spoken barely audibly upon Yifan’s mouth. “But I hoped I would.” A soft smirk tugs Yifan’s lips. He plays with his fingers, glancing at the easy rise and fall of Zitao’s chest and lightly kisses his forehead, nestling himself in his nape afterwards, saying, “I _always_ dreamed of you.” 

 

 

After Yifan pulls out, Zitao turns around and tucks him to his chest, letting him bury his face under his jaw, their legs entwining. Yifan breathes in and out calmly, hand caressing Zitao’s back, fingers ghosting over the muscles and the spine, over the shoulder blades and down to the small bend. He’s found peace in the time being with him, in the washing black current and the froth of his tar eyes. Zitao kisses the top of his head, lids falling shut, knowing it’ll end. 

                                           

                          

 

 

 

Zitao’s heartbeat is quick and clawing up his throat when he stops, the soles of his boots sliding on the mud. The sky is grey and fog has draped everything into a thick cloud. Catching his breath he stares at Yifan’s back, a few metres before of him, his figure standing still by the ruthlessly coursing rapid. His shoulders are sharp and broad, he’s staring at the billowing mass of dusky water, the raging course of it, the white rush. Zitao swallows, eyes wet and skin cold, calls, “ _Yifan?_ ” The sound of his voice drowns into the roar of the rapid, gets muffled in the heavy fog, but Yifan looks at him over his shoulder, a listless smile on his face. Zitao’s brows knit together, a thin gasp running through his throat as he takes a step towards him, slow and pinned to the mud, stomach empty and lungs rent asunder. His steps hasten and he runs, throwing himself around Yifan’s neck, sucking in his breath.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Yifan whispers, both hands coming up, palms pressing on each side of Zitao’s face, holding him, thumbs wiping away the mist from his skin. The lapels of his coat tremble in the rush of the river, in the wind it births. Zitao shakes his head, circling his arms firmer around his neck, pushing himself deep into his chest. 

“I’ll go wherever you need to,” he says, staring into Yifan’s silent auburn eyes. His hair is combed back beneath the soft cap, the collar of his shirt pulled up, the buttons of his coat open. There’s a tender glow in his gaze when he leans down and places a kiss on Zitao’s mouth, arms wrapping around his waist. They’re never intertwined, forever undefined, a determined flow of tides. Zitao knows he’ll find him and Yifan knows he’ll never stop looking. It’ll be all right. 

 

 

Yifan takes a step back and Zitao takes a step forth. Every fibre of Zitao’s being shivers, his hands sliding down from Yifan’s neck, curling around his back underneath the coat. He holds onto him hard, kissing away his mumbles and his doubts, follows another step. 

“I won’t let you go,” Yifan promises, his chest heavy, the bottom of his throat closing up. Zitao smiles. The river clashes, surges down its bed with a torrential force, grating the banks, eating the earth. Zitao’s heart begins skipping. He hears the waves clear and close, becomes deaf to anything but the water and Yifan’s breath. Blood runs in his veins in terror, pulses in his neck. His muscles are tense, but he follows, a cry welling in his chest, but Yifan hushes him, calms him, takes a step. Zitao’s eyes break open and he pulls at his body, tugging at the fabric of his shirt, pleading, uncertain in a moment of despair, and Yifan halts at the edge, embracing him, telling him they’ll be all right. They don’t belong in space or in time. Zitao’s chin trembles and his words quaver when he bites his lip, glances at the thundering void and up at Yifan’s serene eyes.

“Farewell, _my love_.” He kisses him one last time, long and easy, memorising the taste of his tongue, the satin of his lips before burying himself into his chest, head tucked, heart beating out of its chamber. Yifan smiles, hugs him tight to his body and lets him back them off the low cliffside, into the frothy roiling river. The water pins them under surface, pushes Zitao through Yifan’s bones and crushes their lungs. Yifan’s eyes are open but he sees nothing, only feels the cold pressure of the mass around him. Zitao’s eyes are closed and he sees everything, how Yifan smiled and his world was upside down for days, how out of place they felt, how right he feels now that it’s silent around them and Yifan’s heartbeat slows down against his cheek, how comforting the water filling his lungs is now that he’s weak. He doesn’t come up for air.   

 

 

Yifan’s got Zitao’s body in a violent spin. He’s out of control

— and he feels at _home_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_2016_

_OCTOBER_

 

 

The days are darker now; most of the leaves have begun their journey from the branches down to the earth, to mould, to return to the very beginning of the cycle. Zitao sits by the window ledge, head resting against the stone wall, fingers dancing around a glass of whiskey. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sliding his fingertips over his eyelids, massaging them before letting out a sigh and taking a sip of his drink. It’s three to one am, some Wednesday in October 2016, and Zitao is awake, the soles of his bare feet chilly and the back of his mind blurry. He’s sporting the most painful of headaches; he sees the world split in two, the bright lights of the city in double, a merging flood of fire and concrete. The air conditioner drones quietly, filling the apartment with its distant purr. The whiskey dries his throat, tastes sour on his tongue, but it warms his body and calms him down. Taking a deep breath, he licks his lips and lets his eyes close, placing the glass on the ledge. Something woke him in the middle of the night, hauled him from the depths of his dreams and thoroughly unsettled him, and now he finds it impossible to fall back asleep. He’s bothered by it, whatever it is that so immensely washed over him, and cannot shake away the drowning, tumbling feeling that spun him out of the bed, tangled in sheets, the back of his nape moist and a suffocating weight on his chest. It felt so awfully real. 

 

 

Feet shuffle against the wooden floor, stop briefly by the corner before making their way across the living room. Zitao shudders, glancing up to meet Yifan’s sleepy eyes worriedly staring at him. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, his hair ruffled and his pyjama pants low on his hips.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice hoarse from sleep, and runs his fingers through Zitao’s hair, sliding his hand down to his neck, drawing circles. For a while Zitao doesn’t say anything back, merely stares out to the sea of lights, leaning into his touch and into his stomach when he steps closer. “Babe? You okay?”

“I had the strangest dream,” Zitao murmurs, nuzzling his cheek into Yifan’s warm skin, the bridge of his nose burrowing into his flesh. Yifan’s brows rise slightly, a drowsy smile climbing on his mouth as he looks at him, combing through his hair. The bleak hues of the city pool in through the window and in the glass. Zitao kisses Yifan’s stomach, slowly turning around, legs swinging over the edge of the ledge as he wraps his arms around him, hugging him close. Yifan lets out a confused chuckle, massaging his shoulder gently before asking, “Was it a nightmare?” But Zitao shrugs, not fully knowing the answer, only nestling further into his body. It worries Yifan the slightest, but he doesn’t push it. Zitao’s legs dangle on each side of his, his calves pressing behind his, pulling him closer. 

“I dreamt we drowned,” Zitao says, words muffled in Yifan’s stomach. Yifan quirks a brow, his hand resting still on his shoulder. He lowers himself to the floor, knees on the hard wood, Zitao’s arms around his neck and searches for his eyes, finding them teary and baffled. 

“ _Oh_ , honey,” he sighs, caressing his cheek and leaning up to kiss him. Zitao chews on his bottom lip in almost a needy manner, his short nails sinking into his upper back. Yifan blinks, but doesn’t ask a thing. Instead he loops his arms under his knees, up his thighs and lifts him up, off the ledge and into his lap. Zitao inhales and hides his face in his neck, snuggling into his body. Yifan lets out a soft huff and closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, whispering, “Let’s get you back to bed.”

 

 

The lights are off and the walls dark. Zitao’s legs shift under the duvet, pushing between Yifan’s as he settles under his arm, invading his pillow. Yifan nearly rolls his eyes, yet smiles fondly, hooking his thigh over Zitao’s hip, tucking him in, knowing it makes him feel safe. There are many things Zitao feels like saying, but he thinks Yifan already knows. He wants to tell him how many times he’s seen him fall asleep with a smile on his lips, how many times he’s seen him die, how he knows for sure he’s his. He wants to tell him that he _did_ let go of him, that the current washed them apart, but doesn’t because it doesn’t matter. What matters is who’s holding him, who’s kissing him, following him, _for the time being_. 

“Night, _love_.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please don't hate me :) thank you for reading ♥︎ if you liked it, comments and kudos are deeply appreciated!  
> here's an edit for this story: http://hztaos.tumblr.com/post/152472286449/whitewaters
> 
> feel free to stalk me or hit me up for a chat!  
> → instagram.com/elyatcollin  
> → hztaos.tumblr.com


End file.
